Hindsight
by mamblymoo
Summary: Trapped in the Fade, a strange spell forces Anders to relive the love of his life. Confronted with her version of the events, he begins to question his choices, and truly understand the woman he betrayed. Meanwhile, she must face her own demons.
1. Moving Forward

_**Author's Note:**__ This is my first full length fic, and I'm really looking for feedback as to how I can improve my style/structuring. If anyone would be interested in beta-ing please let me know._

_Welcome to Hindsight._

_-Manda_

* * *

><p><strong>Hindsight<strong>

**Chapter 1: Moving Forward**

Sometimes you have to look back to begin to move forward.

Far, far beneath her, the waterfall crashed down onto the rocks. The leaping, spitting water made the cave humid, but under the circumstances it was the best place they'd found since leaving Kirkwall. In truth, such a hiding place could not have come at a better time – Carver's injuries alone would take days if not weeks to heal, despite her best efforts. Then there was the other matter, though in all honesty she was trying to avoid thinking of it.

The scent of the water here lacked the salty tang it had had back in Kirkwall, and she found herself missing the sea in a way she had never thought possible. In the years that Kirkwall had been her home, the sea had served as nothing but a reminder of loss and exile, but now she missed it like a torn limb.

It was early morning, and the sun was rising in the distance over the tangled forest they had stashed themselves in. The waking birds flittered and sang below her, making her ache for those moments of peace she had for so long taken for granted. Everything she had worked for, everything she had built for herself in Kirkwall was gone, and at this moment the knowledge struck her like a knife wound to the chest, seeming to steal her very breath.

Had circumstances been different, had Carver not needed her, had there not still been hope, she might have been considering something desperate, stood there on the cliff top. She did not have the option. Now, more than ever she was needed, and even as her mind flooded with the wreckage of her life, she knew that she would stand tall and face what was to come.

She did not realise that she was cold until she looked down at her trembling fingers. The conduits of so much power and the sources of so much fear. The people of the Free Marches, perhaps the entirety of Thedas, needed these fingers to be strong, to demonstrate the good that magic could do in the world. It seemed almost impossible that she could have come so far.

* * *

><p><em>"Shaping our magic, child, is a matter of control," he said softly, deft hands guiding her own into their rightful gestures. "Your fingers must be strong and agile, to move through the gestures without a second thought. A life can hang on the success or failure of a spell – every movement, however slight, must be made responsibly."<em>

_She shivered at his touch, her heart thudding with love for the kind, gentle man who held her in his arms. Sitting on his knee at the kitchen table, she concentrated and, moving her fingers as he had taught her, lit a sputtering flame on the wick of the candle. With a whoop of joy her father had swept her up in his arms, lifting her ceiling-wards and spinning them round as they laughed joyfully at her success._

* * *

><p>Even now, almost fourteen years after his death, she drew strength from the voice and tenderness of that gentle-souled man. In her moments of greatest struggle, loss, fear, his words were comfort and a power far greater than any she had ever known.<p>

_"Sometimes, child," _he had said to her that night in the firelight, the night of her betrayal,_ "you have to look back to begin to move forward."_

As the sun detached itself from the horizon, she remembered the love that lingered in his eyes as he said those words. When the others were looking at her in little less than horror, when of all of them he was the one with the most right to feel her treachery, he forgave her, and in doing so gave her the right to begin forgiving herself.

Turning her back on the morning, she re-entered the cave. Lighting the end of her staff she followed the route that had become second nature to her in the last three days to the cavern in which they were sheltering. The fire was still burning, and Carver kept his vigil beside it, leant up against the wall. Turning her back on the other bed, nestled in a ledge on the wall of the cave she knelt beside him, trying to ignore the sheen of sweat against his ashen skin. Despite his undoubted agony and the grip of his lyrium-deprivation he was holding together better than either of them would have expected. He even forced a smile as he registered her presence.

"No change in the patient, doctor," he murmured, glancing over her shoulder with a wry look.

"Good," she said quietly, touching her fingertips to his icy forehead. "Thank you."

In other times, Carver might have joked to see her thus, uncertain and worn, but now even he could see the gravity of their situation. Stranded at the top of a waterfall with only a lamed Templar for company, with half the world hunting her for one reason or another, her distress held no humour, even for him.

She drew a deep breath. "I think I'm ready to give you some more healing, if you want."

Despite the shattered fire of his legs, he shook his head. "Rest a little more, sister," he said, seeing the relief flicker in her eyes. "At least eat something. You've been fretting for days."

Relief gave way to frustration, as she cursed herself for her weakness. "I wish I were stronger for you brother, if only Anders..."

"Anders can't help us now," he interrupted as she hung her head, "and you are doing the best that you can. I'll be walking soon enough."

She frowned. "If I'd paid more attention in those lessons," she said quietly, cupping his cheek, "it wouldn't be a matter of healing one fracture at a time, or waiting for my mana to regenerate."

Carver chuckled weakly. "From what I understand, you were fairly distracted in those lessons."

She laughed despite herself. "Perhaps I was. Maker, it seems so long ago."

He smiled, seeing the bit of colour return to her cheeks. "It was, wasn't it? Nigh on seven years," he said, not shrinking from her touch, "Things have certainly changed."

Despite herself, as she shifted into a seated position her eyes flickered back over her shoulder to the bed on the ledge. Seeing the pain in her expression, Carver took her hand. "Don't worry sister," he said, "you'll be the first to know if anything changes."

Forcing a smile, she turned and busied herself with toasting what remained of the bread, trying to ignore the sounds of uneasy breathing coming from the ledge, pretending it was nothing more than the fire's roar. She passed the first slice to Carver.

"I never thought I'd have to stomach your cooking again," he said good-naturedly, watching her work. "Although even you'd have trouble ruining toast."

She chuckled lightly, spreading soft butter onto her slice. "Don't worry," she said. "We can both have a good laugh later when I'm trying to skin a frozen rabbit."

They ate in silence, savouring what they both knew would be the last bread in a long time. If they'd had any inkling of what was coming when they left that town, maybe they'd have bought some flour and yeast, something long-lasting. As it was, they were both stuck within shouting distance of the cave entrance until Carver could walk or even stand unaided.

Finishing her food, Ariadne got to work using up her mana almost immediately. Beginning with what was always the most pressing matter, she swept her hand over Carver's torso, boosting his kidneys and purifying his blood to prevent the build up of infection. That done, she scanned his feet and ankles. Aside from a little swelling and a small amount of scar tissue, the healing she had done so far had taken better than she could ever have expected. With a deep breath she moved her hands upwards, and winced almost immediately.

"You know," her brother muttered wryly, "you really fill me with confidence when you do that."

She shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, "I don't mean to worry you. It's not that I don't think I can fix it, I can. It's just so complicated that I hardly know where to begin." Looking up she saw him frowning, and tried to explain. Concentrating her attention on the edges of a large shard of bone in his left leg, she gave it the slightest dose of healing. "A big break like this I could heal very easily, it's very clean and practically in position already, but it's the fragments I'm worried about," she said, shifting the tingling healing magic to the surrounding chips of bone as Carver hissed through his teeth, "There are so many of them, there's no way I can piece them all back into place, but by the same count I can't leave too many of them out of the healing bone," she sighed. "If I were... a better healer, then I would just dissipate them, let them disperse into your bloodstream."

"But you can't," he said evenly, glancing up at her.

"No," she said sadly, "I can't. My lessons ended at battlefield patch ups. The best I can do is get you limping, I suspect, and even that will take days."

"Good thing we haven't any pressing engagements then, isn't it?" he muttered through gritted teeth, squeezing his eyes shut as he leant his head back against the wall.

She laughed softly. "It certainly is," she murmured. Carefully manipulating the fragments with her gestures, she drew several of them back in line with the wounded bone and, with effort, sealed the back into place. With her mana failing already as she turned to the right leg, she chose a larger, aligned splinter and swept it back into place quickly, before spending her little remaining power on boosting the pain-dulling aura that was the only thing keeping her brother conscious. Spent utterly she sat back from him, pressing her fists into her eye sockets as she leant forward onto her knees. She barely registered the slowing of her brother's breathing, rousing herself only when he placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Thank you," he said breathlessly, "I feel slightly less like my legs are made of broken glass."

Exhausted, they sat for a time in silence, hearing only their own breathing and the snapping of the fire. Eventually Ariadne stirred herself to add more wood to the dimming blaze, and to put the kettle on the fire to boil. The fire was larger than she felt safe with, but she knew that it was the only thing keeping the moisture from breeding infection in the cave, the last thing either of her patients needed. Moving slowly, she sat beside him against the wall.

"Carver?" she said quietly, uncertain whether he was awake. He grunted. "Do you remember what happened with Kester?"

Azure eyes snapped open. "Maker's breath sister," Carver exclaimed, looking down at her in surprise, "of all the things for you to bring up! Yes, I remember. How could I forget?"

Her cheeks flushed with colour as she avoided his gaze. "I know, I'm sorry it's just..."

He frowned, leaning his head back against the wall. "Sister, that's so far in the past..." he paused, at a loss for words, "Even I couldn't begrudge you for it _now_." He could sense her discomfort. "Why mention it?"

She sighed, running a hand over the perspiration coating her forehead. "It's just..." she hesitated, "something father said at the time, about learning from your mistakes. I told him everything, you know, everything that happened..."

Carver scoffed slightly, nudging her with his elbow. "Now come on, I can't imagine for one second that you told him _everything_."

She laughed, leaning against his arm slightly. "You know what I mean," she said peaceably, "everything _important_. He helped me make sense of it all, talking through what happened," she paused slightly, remembering, "That I didn't share _every_ last detail hardly mattered, because I was thinking about it, processing it."

"Going through what happened step by step?"

She nodded fervently, her voice gaining in strength. "Exactly," she said, "taking the time to consider each moment, the signs I missed, how I could have acted differently. Not simply to berate myself, but to understand where I went wrong."

He looked down at her, his head tilted slightly to one side. "You want me to stand in for father?"

"No Carver," she said, looking up at him, "I want you to be you. I'd just like you to listen, if that's alright?"

He smiled, moving his arm to put it around her shoulders. "I think I can manage that," he said kindly, gesturing vaguely at the cavern, "It's not like we have anything better to do."

She didn't start immediately, moving slowly to rebuild the fire a little, before resettling herself in the surprising comfort of her brother's arm. Their eyes met, and they laughed together.

"Who'd have thought we'd be like this?" he said warmly, eyes twinkling in his pale face, "We used to go at it like cats and dogs."

She smiled, seeing the colour returning, in a small measure, to his cheeks. "As I remember it, it was mostly _you_ going at _me_," she replied, her lips twisted in a smirk.

"Alright," he sighed, "you've got me there. Will I never hear the end of what an arse I was?"

Her lips spilt into a grin. "Not while I've got breath to scold."

"Or Varric."

"Or Fenris, Isabella, Merill..."

"I get the point..." he trailed off, his expression faltering. "Do you... do you think they're safe? Wherever they are, I mean?"

Her eyes darkened, and she shook her head. "I hope so, Carver. I really do."

He drew a deep breath, letting the air hiss between his lips in just that way that father had when he was thinking. The memory half choked her, and she felt the prickling rise in her eyes.

"So," he said, interrupting her thoughts with a clearing of his throat, "I believe we were going to talk about how you fell in love with the man who brought everything we ever knew crashing down around our ears."

"So we were..." she shifted her position, drawing a steadying breath into her lungs, unsure if she knew where to begin. "Well," she said finally, "if I'm honest, I think things started the first time we met him, when you left me in the clinic."

Carver's chuckle reverberated through her arm. "Very diplomatic," he said with amusement, "I think 'abandoned' might have been more appropriate."

She shrugged. "All you wanted was to keep us out of the sight of the Templars, and the first thing I did after leaving Athenril was to get into a fight with thirty of them," she said, pitching a worn sigh. "If the situations had been reversed, I'd probably have done the same."

* * *

><p>As the disturbance started waking patients, Varric moved to intercept. "Carver," he intoned, keeping his voice even and low. "See reason. Hawke couldn't have known how that was going to go down, none of us could."<p>

Gesturing angrily at the figure slumped on the cot beside them, Carver snapped his response. "Yes, she could. Anyone with half a brain could!" he turned away from his companions, his voice rising as he threw his arms in the air. "Break into the Chantry in the middle of the night, with a Grey Warden apostate, no less, what else would you expect?"

Varric stepped forward, turning to look the younger Hawke sibling in the eye. "Hindsight's a beautiful thing, Junior," he said, struggling to maintain his own composure. "No need to lose it while your sister's still out cold."

The dwarf glanced back at Hawke's unconscious figure as Carver huffed a grudging assent. Anders bent over her, checking her pulse. "I'm amazed she held it together as long as she did," the warden said appreciatively, sensing the faintness in her aura that could mean only one thing. "That Lieutenant's smite must have hit her straight in the chest. She'll be out for a couple of hours at least."

A smile tweaked the corner of the dwarven merchant's mouth. "That's our Hawke," he said quietly. "March two days on a broken ankle just to prove a point."

"Oh that's right Varric," Carver exclaimed, stepping between the dwarf and the cot. "say it like you're impressed with her. You're as bad as he is. You'd think she'd have learned something when she got Bethany _killed._"

An arm inserted itself between them, and Aveline stepped forward with a stern look. "Carver, calm _down_."

"No Aveline," he exclaimed aggressively, stepping up to her, his cheeks flushing with colour, "I will _not_ _calm down_! If my fool of a sister is going to risk our necks helping every fool with a sob story and something we need she'll _never_ make it to the Deep Roads. Not to mention that he's a Maker-forsaken..."

With that, the healer was on his feet, his eyes flashing with fear. Aveline put her hand firmly on the boy's shoulder, her expression severe. "Keep your voice down!" she said firmly.

"Please friend," Anders chimed in, his voice wavering with uncertainty and alarm, "you're making a scene."

Carver's eyes widened. "_I'm_ making a scene?" he exclaimed, trying to push past the guardswoman. "Oh, that's rich coming from you! We all saw it in that Chantry..."

Varric has had enough. "Carver!" he growled, seizing the teenager by the back of his shirt, "We're leaving. Even if I have to kick your ass from here to the Hanged Man myself."

Scuffling, struggling and generally complaining, the dwarf and his oversized child of a companion made their way out of the clinic, leaving Aveline and their latest recruit standing over the sleeping figure of their leader. When the door closed behind them, Anders sighed in relief, allowing himself to fall back into a chair.

Gathering his thoughts, he watched with interest as the rough guardswoman removed a gauntlet to brush the straying hairs from the sleeping woman's face. An unexpected tenderness that spoke volumes of her regard for the unconscious figure.

"Well," he half-sighed as she straightened up, "at least _you'll_ be here when she wakes up."

"I..." Aveline hesitated, her expression awkward, "About that. I have duty – I'm due back at the Keep in less than an hour."

"Oh," he said, sitting forward in his seat, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Well I suppose I'll just have to hope she recognizes me when she comes round."

* * *

><p>The sun was still shy of rising in the Overcity by the time she woke, her shoulder aching from sleeping for hours in the same position. Her eyes flickered open slowly, revealing a dimly lit space. Across from her, the warden Anders had fallen asleep in his chair, slumped down in the seat. He breathed gently, his chin resting lightly on his chest. He hadn't been sleeping long. Blinking as she raised her head, she realised that what she had a first taken to be a room was actually a small space enclosed by canvas screens. The place smelt of Darktown.<p>

As she sat up, the creaking of the cot roused her companion, and Anders's eyes opened. Allowing him the privacy of his waking moments, she glanced around the makeshift room. Someone had removed her armoured padding, and lain it on a table beside her. They'd also removed her boots, leaving the miserable remnants of her socks open to the air. She turned to look at her companion, her mind filling with questions. Seeing her quizzical expression, he shifted himself back into the seat, straightening his back with a yawn.

She swung her feet round and onto the floor, sitting herself on the edge of the cot as she rubbed her eyes. "I... where am I?"

Sitting forward now, the healer leant across to a small table to pick up his thick coat, his slender arms prickling with the night chill. "Still at my clinic," he said, drawing the heavy, feathered fabric into his lap. "I use the screens at night to make it a bit more... homey."

Seeing him sitting them in his rough woollen vest, she realised that he was slimmer than she'd expected. Narrower. Those pauldrons were pretty bulky. She smiled, yawning as she glanced at the screens. "Does it work?"

"Not really," he said, leaning forward to retie his loosened boots. "Sometimes a bit when I'm tired, but then I have this strange... _knack_ of knocking them over," he feigned a puzzled look before the doctor in him took over. He looked up into her eyes. "How are you feeling?"

She shrugged slightly, sweeping her auburn fringe with her fingertips to get it out of her face. "Better, I think. I had no idea I was so exhausted."

He smiled kindly, turning his attention to the second boot. "Templars make a speciality of it," he said wryly. "I'm surprised you haven't had your mana drained before."

She yawned deeply, stretching her elbow behind her head and shifting her neck, feeling the joints click back into place. "Oh I've come close a fair few times, but I suppose we were always too careful," she said quietly, a twinkle creeping into her eyes. "Or good at _running_. Things nearly turned ugly with Aveline's husband when we were leaving Lothering, but other than that I haven't been up against a Templar in years."

That caught his attention. Anders looked up at her sharply. "Aveline was married to a Templar? And she's your friend?"

Her expression wavered, she paused. She ran a hand over her locks in a nervous gesture, gathering them with her fingertips and letting the strands tumble forwards. "Wesley was... killed by the taint. We never really knew him," she said slowly, thought lines appearing on her brow, "What with him and Bethany... We were all grieving, and we needed each other if we were going to stay alive. It made sense."

"Bethany?" he asked, watching her face carefully. She glanced at him sharply, her breath catching in her chest. His eyes shifted uneasily. "Your brother mentioned her."

What little light there was left in her eyes was snuffed out in an instant. "Oh," she said dully, avoiding his gaze. "She was... my sister. Carver's twin... She died when we escaped the Blight," she looked up, her saddened eyes connecting briefly with his own. "She was a mage too."

The intensity in her eyes startled him, the rawness in her expression touching him in a way he hadn't expected. "I'm so sorry," he said weakly.

She shook her head, getting to her feet. "Don't be," she said briskly, reaching for her staff leaning up against the wall. "It was over a year ago, after all. I don't blame myself anymore."

He smirked slightly as he rose, shaking out his coat. "Why don't I believe _that_ for a second?" he asked kindly.

She shot him a wary glance, but seeing the honesty in his expression, relaxed, smiling in return. Moving around the screen she found herself in the open ward. He followed her, shrugging himself into his coat. She turned to him, her expression confused. "So Carver just left me here, with you?"

He nodded reluctantly. "Varric took him off to the Hanged Man," he said quietly, eyes flickering over the sleeping forms of his patients, "and Aveline had guard duty."

She rolled her eyes, returning to the screened area to collect her pack and armour. "Why am I not surprised?" she muttered darkly.

"That he'd abandon you to the care of a complete stranger?" Anders replied, adding with a wry smile. "An _abomination_, no less?"

Bending over her pack she glanced up at him, flashing a quick smile that did something unexpected in his chest. "More that he'd make a scene," she said, matter-of-factly. "Only thing guaranteed to make Varric head home."

She stood up, pulling her armoured tunic over her head briskly. "I should get going," she said, smiling amicably. "Mother will pitch a fit if I don't make it back to Lowtown tonight," she looked around at the dim chamber, uncertain, "Assuming it is still tonight... is it?"

He smiled at her confusion. "It is, just about," he said, collecting his staff. "I'll walk you back. You shouldn't go through Darktown alone in your state."

"No really it's..." she turned quickly, dizzying herself. She paused, feeling his hand supporting her elbow in a fluid motion. Their eyes met. She blushed slightly, embarrassed at her weakness. "Thank you," she said humbly, "that would be kind."

* * *

><p>Beside her, Carver chuckled warmly. "And that was the moment?" he said, his voice laden with scepticism, "The same night he reveals he's an abomination and stabs his best friend right in front of you. Your eyes meet his and you go weak at the knees? Sounds like a bad romance novel..."<p>

"You would know," she muttered darkly. "And it wasn't like _that_. The look I saw in his eyes was as surprised as I felt myself. There was..." she sighed, feeling the inadequacy of her words, "a tenderness in the gesture, the moment. A way of being he'd forgotten, and that I'd never even learned. It was... intimate."

She drew a ragged breath, astounded at the power the memories still held over her. "Of course," she said thoughtfully, "it had been unconscious, and the moment our brains started working again it became... painfully awkward. He started to walk me home."

* * *

><p>The path back to the Overcity was more convoluted at this time in the night. Luckily Anders knew which routes to take to avoid the worst of the marauding gangs, and the refugees respected him too much to push their luck.<p>

"So where exactly do you live?" he asked brightly, helping her step over an open sewer. "I heard all the smugglers have palaces in Hightown these days..."

"I..." she faltered, taken aback, "you know about that?"

He shrugged casually. "It didn't take me long to figure out that you were the Hawke people keep mentioning," he said plainly. "Not many Fereldens making a name for themselves in this city."

"I suppose not," she replied quietly.

He glanced over at her, saw the discomfort in her expression. "Hey," he said cheerfully, "far be it from me to knock another soul's profession. 'Darktown quack' doesn't exactly pay the bills."

She gave him a dark look. "At least it's something you chose. I prefer not to think of our servitude with Athenril as my 'profession'."

The bitterness in her voice surprised both of them, and she felt the need to explain, walking purposefully down the dim alley. "My Uncle couldn't afford to get us into the city, and it wasn't as if we were safe hanging about at the Gallows. It was either working with Athenril, or becoming a mercenary," she said flatly, and shuddered. "I couldn't bear the thought of _killing _people to make a living. When it came down to it, we didn't really have a choice."

That... wasn't what he'd been expecting. The darkness in her face showed that he'd touched a nerve. He tried to lighten the mood. "For someone who doesn't like killing..." he said, gesturing to lead her up a winding staircase, "you're pretty good at it."

They could feel the air from the Overcity breathing down onto them now. She paused for a moment inhale it, sweet compared to the myriad musty tunnels. She looked at him, the torchlight soft on his features as he too stopped to breathe, his eyelids fluttering shut. "There isn't much I wouldn't do to protect my family," she said, though her look said she wanted to say more.

"Except?" he said, feeling the inevitability of the question.

She hesitated, trying to put the matter as delicately as possible. "Your... arrangement with Justice."

The expression made him chuckle. "Arrangement?" he said, raising an eyebrow, "I've never heard it called _that_ before."

She frowned, her mouth twisting uneasily. "I mean, is that all there is to it? Or are you..."

They had reached the top of the staircase, and he paused, turning his face up to the open sky. "You want to know if I'm a Blood Mage?" he said, matter-of-factly.

She looked at him seriously, and he could feel her tensing for the response. "I have to ask," she said firmly. "I can't risk my family any more than I already have."

He sighed deeply, and flashed her a smile. "Well then, you're in luck," he quipped, "I'm terrified of pain."

He watched the relief clear her expression, felt the tension in her relaxing as she recognised where she was and began to lead the way. "You know," he said casually as he followed, "most apostates are perfectly reasonable people. Blood mages are the exception."

That certainly stopped her in her tracks. She spun on the spot, facing him with a curious expression. "You think I'm judging you because you're an apostate? I..." she hesitated, and then giggled. "Oh that's priceless!" She descended into laughter, covering her mouth with her hand.

It was fairly common for mages to get a little giddy when they were recovering from a smite, but this seemed excessive. Now it was Anders' turn to frown. "Is it? I seem to be missing something..."

"Well," she said, still giggling slightly, "me judging apostates would be pretty rich. I've never even seen the inside of a Circle!"

"You..." his frown deepened, "you've never been inside the Circle? What, not even back in Ferelden?"

She shook her head, a little too enthusiastically. It was almost as if she were a little tipsy. They did say that the first time you had your mana ripped from you was the hardest, but he'd been too young to really remember. "Not once," she said, proudly, "it's a Hawke family tradition."

Now it hit him. "That's... Hawke's your family name?" he said, his eyes widening significantly, "As in _Malcolm_ Hawke?"

Her burgeoning smile split into a grin, as she gestured at her face. "The proud progenitor of my fine blue eyes and mahogany locks," she said as she turned a corner, heading down an alley with the briefest flash of a backward glance, "My father."

This really was _something_. "I had no idea."

On the other side of the narrow alleyway she paused for a moment to allow him to walk beside her. "Why would you?" she asked, cocking her head slightly. "Most people just assume that Hawke's a nickname, Carver too..." she paused, musing for a moment. "It's a shame really... my eyesight isn't even that good."

He hardly seemed to hear her, looking at her with a mixture of astonishment and admiration. "So you've lived as an apostate your whole life? With your family?"

She nodded, leading him up a staircase. "Bethany and I were both mages," she said happily, stopping outside a large, wooden door. "Father trained us himself." She gestured vaguely at the building behind her. "This is it. Thank you for walking me back, and I'm..." she hesitated as her energy bubble deflated. Her eyes darkened as she remembered why they were even talking. "I'm... sorry about your friend."

The memory hit him with startling vividness. He'd been so caught up in the conversation that it had half-slipped his mind. His expression fell, and his questions curled into ashes in his mouth. He looked down at his hands, almost expecting to see blood on them. "Karl was a good mage," he said quietly, "a good man."

He looked up at her, saw the sympathy in her expression. "I don't doubt it," she said, adding after a pause. "At least you were able to give him peace."

He nodded weakly. "I was... I just wish it didn't feel so empty."

She understood that, knowing the pain of a hollow consolation. She bowed slightly, watching the pain flicker over his features. "One day, maybe you could tell me about him?"

The naturalness of the gesture took him aback "I..." he stammered, "I'd like that."

She smiled at that, a pretty, earnest motion in her soft featured face. The moment stretched slightly, and a thought occurred to her. "Actually..." she said hesitantly, "I don't suppose I could borrow you tomorrow? I have to head up to Sundermount to make a delivery and I... don't know quite what to expect."

That piqued his curiosity. "That sounds ominous," he said, "I thought you were done being a smuggler?"

She frowned. This whole thing was too complicated. "I am," she said awkwardly. "This is... a favour I have to do for someone. Someone who saved my life."

He smiled wryly, leaning forward slightly. "You know," he said in a conspiratorial whisper, "you're not doing a very good job of making this sound _less_ ominous."

She flushed slightly, though it was barely noticeable in the moonlight. "I... Sorry. I understand if you're too busy."

Her apology, unease masked in formality, amused him. "No, no," he said, waving his hands slightly. "Don't mistake me. If you'd like me to tag along, I'd be more than happy to." He turned his eyes skywards for a second. "I could do with getting out of the city."

Her expression brightened immediately. "Really? That's... great. We're meeting at the city gates at sunrise."

She turned to the door, unlocking it as gently as she could manage. Opening it near-silently she looked back at him with a half-triumphant smile and whispered. "I'll see you then."

He nodded, backing away slightly. "I look forward to it."

Turning, he made his way down the steps and back towards Darktown, but not before he heard the distinct sounds of a woman's complaining voice and the sigh of a disappointed and caught daughter.

Sometimes, there were distinct benefits to _not_ living with your mother.

* * *

><p>"How very apt," Carver said, shifting slightly as he scratched at his left temple, "no good tale is complete without the Witch of the Wilds."<p>

Ariadne smiled, adjusting her position against his shoulder. "Oh, I don't know," she said, frowning thoughtfully, "She's not in Dane and the Werewolves, is she?"

Her brother shrugged vaguely. "I always figured she made the wolves, myself."

"Good call," she paused for a moment, teeth tugging at her lower lip. "You know, I always wondered what he must have thought of me, blathering away like an idiot about my family like that when he'd just killed his oldest friend."

"He was probably expecting it," Carver said with a slight grimace. "Forced mana deprivation does that to mages. Knocks them out, fills them with manic energy and then knocks them out again. Meredith did a study. Certainly explains why you slept for ten straight hours once you were home."

She frowned, pulling back to look into her brother's face. "Meredith did a _study_?"

Carver nodded, his teeth gritted slightly as a shudder rocked him body. "Meredith did a lot of things," he said, sweat beading on his forehead as he moved his hand to grip his thigh, "sheliked to be... thorough."

His body shook as another spasm flared up from his leg, turning his face green. Ariadne turned to face him, putting her hands on his shoulders. "What's happening? There must be something I can do."

He groaned deeply, pressing his hands down on his leg as it shuddered. "It's just..." he muttered, his voice little more than a growl. "These spasms... when my legs twitch like that I can feel... everything."

Thinking quickly, Ariadne leant forward, tilting her brother's face up to look into hers. "I could try paralysing them," she said quickly. "That should ease the spasms, at least for a while."

The next shudder engulfed him, leaving him breathless with pain as she stroked the hair back from his face. Trying to focus on anything other than the pain he nodded. "If you think it will help. I'm willing to try anything right now."

"Of course," she said, moving over him in a moment, summoning the little mana that had returned. "Just... hold still... there."

She watched nervously as the tension left Carver's shoulders, seeing the relief in his face as the tremors stopped she sighed. "Maker's breath this is exhausting," she said softly, leaning into his arm. "It's yet another drain on my mana. This whole process is just going to keep taking longer."

Carver nodded slightly, weakened almost beyond the point of speech. "I know," he whispered, "but there's nothing else we can do."


	2. Unfamiliar Territory

_**Author's Note**__: Okay folks, a cursory glance over the published version of chapter 1 once again proved that I NEED a beta. Please offer. I'll love you forever if you do._

_Some plot appears! Also disclaimers. I disclaim, and all that._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2: Unfamiliar Territory<strong>

The vision ended, the stillness descending like night, the darkness enclosing all.

"I don't understand what I'm seeing," a voice said quietly in the shadows. "What am I doing here?"

The presence beside him shifted slightly, a kind gesture, it seemed. It spoke, she spoke.

"Do you know where you are? Can you tell me?" she asked, her soft voice low and gentle.

"The Fade," he said certainly. There could be no doubt.

When the voice did not respond he opened his eyes. The vision about him was sick and blurry, a worn, wild landscape with little definition. He was sitting on a rock, his knees tucked up into his chest. Beside him was a girl with curious brown eyes looking out of a pale face.

"You seem familiar," he said, words rising automatically. "Are you someone I know?"

She was indistinct, her features ghostly and blurred, yet still more real than anything else. "I'm not really anyone," she said, with a sad smile. "I'm not really here."

He frowned, shifting slightly away from her. "Are you are a spirit then, a demon?"

She shook her head, her face seeming to gain some definition. "Ask your friend if you don't believe me," she said, and he recognized something in her voice. "If you can trust him."

Confused, he turned inwards, voicing his question aloud in his mind. The answer came reluctantly.

_'No, this is no creature of the Fade.' _

He looked back to the face before him, saw the watchfulness in those almond-shaped eyes. "Then what are you?"

An expression flittered across her youthful features, a twisting of her small mouth, as if she were having difficulty finding the words. "An illusion," she said finally. "A vision sent to guide you. Part of the spell."

He glanced around him, trying to focus on the landscape as it shifted woozily about him. "I'm under a spell?" he asked, disbelievingly. "Whose?"

A slight smile, and a hint of amusement entered the guide's voice. "I'm sure that you can guess."

He turned his thoughts to his visions, emotions churning as he recalled her face. "Ariadne," he murmured quietly, slipping himself off the rock, walking in an attempt to clear his head. "This is her magic." He paused, pressing a hand to his brow as he considered what he had seen. "Those were her memories that I saw. I'm almost certain of it."

The guide's voice seemed curious, and her expression too as he turned to look back at her. She seemed almost hesitant to ask. "What did you see?"

He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing his mind on the images. "She was a child," he said quietly, "lighting candles with a man... her father?" He opened his eyes, seeing the curious sad light in the guide's face, and frowning. "It must have been. He was like Carver, only gentle. He had had her eyes. I could feel how much she loved him."

The guide nodded, and for the first time he could see that she wore her black hair down. "He was a good man," she said, her voice strained by some unspoken emotion. "Kind and... like you said, gentle."

His mind abounded with questions, but he kept his attention on the matter at hand. "But then there was the second vision. That couldn't have been hers - she was unconscious. _I _remembered that. That was mine."

The guide slipped off the rock, moving to face him where he stood. "It was," she said calmly, "your mind is at work here too."

She raised her hands, placing them gently over his eyes, forcing him into the dark. Images began to rise up within him, and he struggled to speak. "I don't understand."

Her voice drifted to him in the darkness, so familiar and yet not one he had ever heard. "In time you will, I promise you. For now, however, you must watch."

* * *

><p>The morning of their journey was heralded by a clear sky and a spring breeze. For the first time in months the air felt fresh on her face as Ariadne waited by the gates. Sitting over the cart's edge, her legs dangling, she ignored Carver and Varric's bickering behind her, preferring to concentrate on what she was seeing, smelling and feeling.<p>

The bright light struck the sandy-coloured walls of the Lowtown buildings with an unexpected crispness. The skyline seemed to dance with jumping of drying laundry, while the city below bustled with people eager to get on with their days. There was a chaos in it, but also a beauty. The city, for all its horror, its depravity and dirt, was vital and alive.

Reaching up she tried once again to retie her hair. Even when still damp from the morning's washing it seemed determined to slip its bonds, to escape her control. She fussed a little, cursing under her breath.

"Good morning!" a voice said brightly beneath her, causing her to drop the leather strap she tied her hair with to the ground.

"Maker's armpits!" she exclaimed irritably, "I almost had it!"

She glared down at the cause of her disturbance. It was the healer, Anders. "Oh!" she said, sputtering as she scrambled to her feet. "I am so sorry. I should have realised."

She bent forward, offering her hand to help him up into the cart.

"It's no trouble," he said brightly, taking her help and stepping nimbly up onto the cart. "I understand how difficult it can be to keep your hair in check."

She smiled as they seated themselves, a slight blush staining her cheeks as Varric urged the driver to get going. Anders leant forward, offering the leather tie.

"I think this is yours," he said, before turning to Varric at the front of the wagon, leaving Hawke to fasten her hair carefully. "I never imagined we'd be travelling in such _style_."

The dwarf shrugged nonchalantly. "Curly is an associate of my brothers. Happens to be heading into the mountains himself this morning. Isn't that right Curly?"

The elf in the driver's seat nodded. Anders couldn't help but noticed that his hair wasn't curly. He decided not to ask. He turned to begin speaking to Carver, but the young man's scowl was more than enough to discourage him. Luckily Hawke finally seemed to have succeeded in tying her hair.

"So," he asked warmly, "any chance you can make this expedition sound slightly less doom-laden in the light of day?"

She shifted slightly in her seat, clearly uneasy. "I... I'm not so sure that I can."

He noticed that Carver too looked more than a little nervous, but was surprised to hear the dismissive snort from their dwarven companion. An awkward silence loomed. Anders surveyed his companions. Varric was leant back into the corner of the wagon nearest the driver, his expression one of a dwarf who feels his time is being wasted. Across from him, and next to his sister, Carver sat with one elbow leant up on the bar of the driver's seat. Clearly there was some sort of disagreement in the ranks. Perhaps it would be better to change the subject.

"You know," he said brightly, looking over at her. "I had a friend like you once. Got in all kinds of trouble, dragged me along. Didn't think I'd be doing that again."

The girl grinned appreciatively, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Are you saying I'm _trouble_?" she asked cheerfully. "Well, that's the nicest thing anyone's said to me all day!"

Beside him the dwarf grunted curtly. "The day is young Hawke," he drawled. "Maybe I'll start being nice if you prove not to be _completely_ bat-shit crazy."

Her eyes narrowed. "Thanks Varric," she said sharply, "I really appreciate that." Rolling her eyes with a sigh of irritation, she turned to him, lowering her voice so that the driver wouldn't hear. "I passed by the Chantry yesterday afternoon," she said quietly, her expression serious, "Figured it would be pretty obvious if there'd been any kind of disturbance."

He leant forward, his question little more than a whisper. "Was there?"

She shook her head, matching his movement. "None. The Templars must have hushed it up..." she paused, her face uncertain. "I can't tell if it's a good or a bad sign."

Not bothering to lower his voice, Carver interjected harshly, "_I_ can't imagine why they'd even do it."

The look she shot him would have silenced all but the most puffed up of idiots. "A botched operation?" she hissed. "Arrows, sword-fighting and no evidence of Blood Magic? I don't think it's something they'll be wanting to advertise."

Their eyes met, and he nodded. "You're right," he said quietly, "I'd take it as a good sign. Chances are they've got nothing to follow up on."

Seeing the understanding passing between them, Carver's lip curled in disgust. "Doesn't hurt to be out of the city though, does it?" he snapped angrily.

Glancing up at the boy, the warden smirked. "Does it ever?" he asked, suggestively.

Sniggering at the foul looks her brother was giving the mage, Ariadne sat back in her seat and drew a piece of paper from her pocket. "Anyway," she said loudly, "while I was in Hightown I found a posting on the Chanter's board. Some Prince or other wants revenge on some mercenaries. Looks like there might be some profit in this trip after all."

The change in Varric's demeanour was instantaneous. He reached across to take the paper. "You don't say!"

Even Carver looked relieved, almost appreciative. "And here I thought we were wasting our time running errands for that crazy old witch."

His last words seemed to catch at something bothering Hawke. She rounded on him angrily. "Do you want to leave it lying around Carver?" she said, drawing something from her pocket, holding it aloft. The silver chain shone in the sunlight as her blue eyes flashed with annoyance. "It's a pretty amulet, maybe mother would like to wear it?" she said, almost spitting with irritation.

Carver winced, and even Varric moved uneasily. He looked at the amulet, sensing the restlessness around it. There was more to this thing than met the eyes. Hawke breathed carefully, calming herself, she looked at her brother with pleading eyes. "The sooner we're rid of this thing, shot of our debt to that... _creature_ the better it will be for all of us."

The word caught him by surprise. "Creature?" he asked, glancing at the expressions around him. "Why do I get the feeling I'm missing something?"

As the amulet disappeared back into Hawke's armour, the dwarf leant forward with a chuckle. "You mean you didn't tell him?" he asked mockingly. "Oh that's priceless, Hawke, really. No wonder he agreed to come."

She scowled at Varric. He really was doing everything he could to wind her up. "I was half giddy from mana deprivation when I asked him," she glanced over at their companion, and felt a slight blush rising in her cheeks. "Besides, it's embarrassing."

Varric's lip curled into a smirk. "Why?" he asked sarcastically. "Because you think he'll laugh in your face like I did when you told me?"

Leaning forward, the girl glared at him, pointing a finger at his face. "Dwarf," she growled, her voiced laced with menace, "if you don't stop mocking me I will set fire to your precious crossbow, I swear."

Her threats did not go ignored. The dwarf lifted his hand, muttering darkly, "You'd be dead before you even waggled your pretty little fingers, lady."

"I..." she hesitated, more than a little defeated, attempted a reconciliation. "Look, pointless threats aside, just because you don't believe me, doesn't mean it didn't really happen."

Relaxing slightly, the dwarf leant back with a roll of the eyes. "Right, right, because you and your family flew to Kirkwall on the back of a _dragon_."

Her eyes flared angrily. "I never!" she sputtered. "That's not what I said! Carver, please help me out here."

Carver shrugged, refusing to rise to the bait. "Don't look at me," he said, looking more than a little uncomfortable, "I'm not even sure _I_ believe it, and I was there."

This bickering, while amusing, wasn't achieving anything. It was time to interrupt. "Look," Anders said calmly, looking Hawke full in the face, "I've seen some pretty strange stuff in my time. Just try me."

Her face coloured with embarrassment. She really was doing a good job of making herself seem like an arse. "Alright..." she muttered, glaring at Varric. "But if anyone laughs... Even just a chuckle, I am going home."

Looking like nothing so much as a petulant child, she began her tale. Explaining how, with Bethany's corpse not even cold at their feet, they had been overwhelmed by darkspawn, and seemed trapped beyond help. She leant forward as she came to explain how a dragon had appeared above them, her expression becoming more animated as she described how it had swooped in to save them, and the ensuing encounter.

He couldn't help but smirk as she finished, leaning back in his seat with a slightly pleased expression "So that's your big secret?" he asked, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "You were saved by the Witch of the Wilds?"

Cheeks burning, Hawke leant forward, shaking her head. "I know it sounds ludicrous," she said, pressing her hands over her eyes. "Really, I do."

The chuckle escaped his lips before he had time to check it. "Not as much as you might think," he said cheerily. "I... uhh..." he paused, making a slight show of inspecting his fingernails, "I happened to travel with the Warden Commander, back in Amaranthine."

All eyes shot to look at him, but it was Carver who piped up first, dark brows furrowed. "The Warden Commander? You mean you knew the Hero of Ferelden?"

He nodded, feeling more smug than he had any real right to. It wasn't often he had a real chance to show off. "Callir Cousland, finest woman ever to grace the thron.," Unable to stop himself, he leant forward, eyes glinting mischievously as he said in a conspiratorial whisper, "Sometimes, she let me call her 'Cal'." Such lies... She never let anyone call her that.

Now it was Varric's turn to interject, his expression disbelieving. "You're serious? You mean you believe this pile of crap?"

He smiled at the fuming dwarf, shrugging his shoulders slightly. "I do, as it happens," he said mock-casually. "Not many people know that Flemeth can transform into a dragon."

"That's it," the dwarf exclaimed, throwing himself back into his seat with an expression of frustration. "Now I've heard everything."

He couldn't help but see the expression on Hawke's features. Half-relieved and still half-nervous. "You do realize she'd dead though, don't you?" he asked, looking up at her reassuringly, "The Commander killed her back in the Blight. She's not about to swoop down on us."

"I certainly hope not!" Carver said, turning slightly to put his boot up on the bench. "Swooping is bad."

She laughed at that, running her hand over her hair, causing a few strands to stray from her knot. "I just..." she said, more than a little abashed. "Don't think we can be _too_ careful with this, that's all."

Anders frowned slightly, leaning back in his seat. "If you're so worried about what will happen, why not just _not_ deliver the amulet?"

Carver snorted slightly. "Because she's probably ten times more afraid about what will happen if she doesn't," he said bluntly.

Hawke pointed at her brother. "What he said."

The embarrassed look on her face made him smile. "Look," he said kindly, "I doubt I'm going to convince you, but I'm sure everything will be fine. Flemeth's dead, and I'm sure these elves will be content to accept the amulet and send you on your way. Dalish elves are, in my experience, not particularly keen on humans."

"I hope you're right," she said quietly, her eyes still uncertain. "Really, I do."

* * *

><p>They were well out of the city now, and the path was heading steadily upwards. In the distance Sundermount loomed, a blue tinted shape that became clearer with every passing minute. The morning's conversation confirmed much of what Anders had gathered from their first meeting.<p>

The girl, Hawke, was bright and good-hearted, with a slight tendency to joke about things that made her nervous. She would have been twenty, at a guess, an opinion taken mostly from the fact that she was still rather awkward in her own skin, all angles and slightly misjudged movements. There was something disarming about it, much like the way in which hands would mess with her hair at any given opportunity, only for her to complain seconds later that it was impossible to keep in check. Added into the mix the fact that her heart-shaped face was uncommonly pretty, and her eyes a truly dazzling blue, and he had no doubt that his younger and less wise self would have been flirting with her outrageously.

By contrast her brother Carver was a sullen creature, who clearly viewed him as at best an irritation and at worst a threat. What to, he wasn't exactly sure. The tease in him rather hoped it was that the lad didn't particularly like the way he was talking to his sister, and was rather hoping to test this hypothesis by flirting a little more openly, but there again was that thing he didn't want to do. In short, with his brawny arms and his snippy manner, Carver had all the bark and bite of a toothless Mabari. Although _Mabari_ were generally regarded as intelligent creatures. Given that he didn't talk much except in barks or grunts of disapproval, much of this was gathered from his body language, leaning back into the corner of the wagon with one foot up on the bench so that his legs were spread as wide as they could be in the small space. Very subtle.

Then of course there was the dwarf. He'd never met a beardless one before, though he seemed to maintain this with a razor rather than by nature given the extensive chest hair on display. Wise-cracking and sarcastic, Varric's humour had appealed to him instantly, and even if he did have a distinctly unhealthy attachment to that crossbow of his, he wasn't exactly the kind of person to be judging anyone on unhealthy attachments.

The chatter on the cart was light-hearted and meaningless, with the notable exception of Carver, who seemed determined to glower them all to death. Anders seemed as likeable as he had the first time she'd met him, and Ariadne couldn't help but wonder how it was possible for someone who was technically an Abomination to seem so... normal. More than normal. The guy was funny, despite having clearly seen more than his fair share of both human and inhuman monsters, and willing to smile despite... well, _Karl_. That and he really did have those eyes Lirene had mentioned. It didn't make sense. Not to mention that it seemed ever so slightly unfair.

Before they knew it the cart had pulled up at the bottom of a winding track. "This is as far as I'll be going," the driver said bluntly, "I'll be coming back this way near nightfall, if you need to get back."

With the exchange of silver and a few appreciative words, the party got down from the wagon and began making their way up the path. Carver strode ahead, which seemed only natural, and he was followed by Varric, who seemed set on the utterly futile course of trying to make him lighten up. That left Ariadne walking with Anders, which she found she didn't in the least bit mind. In fact, it gave her the perfect opportunity to get something off her chest.

"I wanted to apologise," she said, picking slightly at a thread fraying from her glove. "The other night I got a bit... carried away."

He smiled, shaking his head. "Don't worry. It was nothing I couldn't handle."

She returned his smile, tucking a flyaway hair behind her ear. "I suppose it was... pretty refreshing really, meeting someone who actually knew what it was like to be an apostate," she said, watching her boots dig into the gravel. "More often than not we're too busy running to make conversation."

He laughed softly at that, a warm sound that she couldn't help but like. "You can say that again," he said. "I can count the number of real conversations I've had with other apostates on one hand."

She nodded, breathing deeply. "There's something about Kirkwall," she said, her voice gaining in enthusiasm. "Even though I'm being hunted. Even though it sounds like this Knight Commander is a despot in the making, I've met more people willing to accept me for who I am here than I have in my whole life," she paused thoughtfully. "It's almost too good to be true."

He wasn't sure what to make of that. He certainly wasn't sure he could say the same. "I suppose the thing that I really couldn't get over was that you lived with your family the whole time" he said eventually, deciding that it was easier just to change tack. "That you've never even been in a Circle. What was that like?" he asked, looking across at her.

She frowned slightly, glancing back at him. "Honestly?" she asked, and she was surprised to see him nod. "For a long time... incredibly lonely. We had each other, but we were never in one place long enough to get to know anyone else. Things were different in Lothering," she admitted, sadly, "but we always had to be so guarded."

He found this rather difficult to believe. "You really think you're better off here?"

"Not exactly," she said with a slight shake of the head, "At least while it's still chaotic I can disappear into the crowd. It may not last, but when things do turn nasty at least I know there's somewhere safe to leave mother and Carver."

"You'd leave them here?"

She nodded. "Without Bethany and I there's nothing hanging over them," she said plainly, with no hint of self-sacrifice, as if it were the only sensible option. "They're safe, and they can start building something good. When you run..." she paused, her eyes clouding slightly, "people get hurt. Things get lost. They've run enough."

This certainly wasn't what he had been expecting. "That's... noble I suppose," he said, his eyebrows raised.

She shrugged. "It's also practical. I know from experience that it's easier to smuggle a single mage from a city than a family."

He had to accept that. "True enough."

She paused, running a hand over her hair. "Don't get me wrong," she said, her expression firm but earnest, "I don't _want_ to have to leave. Kirkwall's done more for me that I thought possible. For once in my life I don't feel like being a mage is the only thing about me that matters," she paused, and something in her face told him that she'd surprised herself. She blushed. "I never talk like this to anyone," she said, shaking her head slightly before looking at him. "Are you sure you're not a Blood mage? You must be doing something."

He grinned, giving his shoulders a nonchalant shrug. "What can I say, I'm just _that _charming."

She chuckled, an eyebrow raising slightly. "Obviously."

Something, just the tiniest something in her chuckle struck him. The realization hit him that here was a girl who probably wouldn't have appreciated the kind of man he used to be. Not that they couldn't have been friends, but rather that the kind of woman she was found it difficult to really connect to people who relied on charisma. That if anything that kind of persuasive overconfidence was almost guaranteed to make her back away from someone. A kind of shyness and difficulty in trusting new people. Of course, given her background that made more than a little sense. Still... it was refreshing.

And now he was staring. "Listen," he said, clearing his throat slightly, and focusing on his boots, "while we're clearing the air, I want to apologise for getting a bit... weighty when we talked after the Chantry. Sorry for putting that on you."

"Don't be," she said, gently, glancing at him as she matched his pace. "Honestly you can tell me anything."

"Anything?" he asked, his face brightening. "Be careful what you offer. I just..." he paused, unsure of how to put this, "I hope I didn't seem too selfish when I told you about Justice. I didn't know what would happen. I thought a willing host, a friend... It had to be better than playing the demon and haunting some corpse."

She frowned at that, twisting the unravelling thread from her glove around her fingers. "My father used to say something," she replied thoughtfully. "Mostly when we'd done things that were wrong, but still. He'd say," she drew herself slightly more upright, took a deep breath, "'We can't judge the outcome of our actions. We can only make them with a true heart.' It's a bit of a cliché, but it seems to me that you did what you did with the best of intentions," she smiled at him. "You tried to help your friend. You couldn't have known how things were going to turn out."

"Kind, wise _and_ beautiful?" he exclaimed, raising an eyebrow. "You must have made some deals with demons yourself." Well _that _was cheesy. Not to mention being exactly the kind of behaviour he'd literally _just _realised was almost guaranteed to put her off. His cheeks coloured. "I'm sorry... It's just... We've hardly met and it feels like I know you already. Am I making you uncomfortable?"

Her flustered expression was more than enough to tell him yes, but as he had already seen more than once, her nervous humour kicked in. "Keep telling me I'm beautiful, you can't go wrong with that."

"Oh I'm sure I can get more creative..."

'Andraste's knickers you fool, shut _up_! She's looking at you like a startled bloody deer. If you even wanted to get into her smallclothes, which, as a slight reminder, you _don't_ right now, she's practically running for the hills.'

Coughing slightly, or maybe even choking (Was he flirting with her? Could she really be sure? Maybe this was some sort of... warden humour. Maybe she should just play along. Shit she'd gone as red as Bethy's hanky, she must look like a _total arse_.) she looked away up the path to see that Carver and Varric were just too far ahead. If she tried to catch up with them now, it would be patently obvious that she felt awkward and/or that she was avoiding him. Change the subject. Change it.

"So..." she said, rubbing the back of her neck, "How are you feeling, about Karl?"

'That's it? That's the best you can do? 'Hello Mr Warden, you have nice eyes and a really pretty mouth and also stubble, but I don't know how to cope when people flirt with me so let's talk about your dead mate that you killed less than forty-eight hours ago.' Congratulations Ariadne, you are a buffoon.'

Anders blanched, feeling as if the wind had been knocked out of him. His mouth twisted awkwardly. "It's difficult," he said, finally, "I hadn't seen him in a long time but... he was special to me. More than just a friend."

'"More than just a..." Oh. Oh thank the Maker for that,' she thought to herself with considerable relief. Now at least she could stop blushing.

She smiled slightly, "I understand."

He frowned at her, her whole countenance seemed to have shifted somewhat. "Do you?" he asked, uncertain.

She nodded, unable to repress her feelings of relief. "I lived my whole in Ferelden as an apostate," she said, matter-of-factly. "I've heard what it's like at the Circle."

He smiled at that, unable to repress a small chuckle. "I used to think that was one of the few upsides to the whole matter."

She chuckled briefly, but her face became serious. "You might say that," she said, twisting a strand of hair between her fingertips, "but then again you are a man. It's generally easier for men to get away with that sort of behaviour outside the Circle."

It was clear enough what she was referring to. "You mean without being labelled a slut."

She nodded, her expression resigned. "Essentially," she said quietly. "The Circle girls we helped were often... too trusting. More than one of them got hurt. It's not as if they set about teaching you how people behave in the wider world."

"No," he admitted, "no it isn't."

"I'm so glad I never ended up inside a Circle," she said, her eyes turning skyward as if embracing their freedom. "Bethy too. Even just going to the Gallows here..." she trailed off, shaking her head. "It gives me the shivers."

He smiled. "Stuff of childhood nightmares, hmm?"

"More or less," she said softly, and he could see the fleeting darkness in her face, "But anyway, you were talking about Karl."

He nodded, returning to the feelings he'd done nothing but pore over for the last day, "I just..." he paused, feeling his anger rise, "keep coming back to the injustice of it all."

"That seems..." she said gently, watching him closely, "understandable."

His lips curled, words that had been stuffed inside him, building up inside him starting to tumble out. "It's the bloody templars!" he snarled, "They don't see us as people! They don't care that Karl was someone's son, someone's lover," he shook his head. "If you're born with magic they hear about it, they search your little rat-spit village and find you. They tell your parents they'll be thrown in prison if they ever ask about you, stripped of their rights in the eyes of the Maker," he knew he was going too far, but he didn't seem able to stop himself, "And if you run away they hunt you down. Again, and again and again."

She stopped him, simply, with a hand on his arm. Looking into his face she said, nervously, "You're starting to glow again."

He paused, breathing deeply. "And since yours is the only head here, and I don't want to rip it off, I should stop. Yes, sorry."

Her eyes were a little uneasy she turned away from him, pushing on up the path. "I often think it's the sympathizers who come out worst in these situations," she said, watching her footing. "The truth of the matter is that the templars don't care who they hurt. Some of the time they even want to."

There was something in her voice, a deep sadness, a wound. "You sound as if you're speaking from experience yourself," he said, watching her expression.

"I am," she breathed, her eyelids fluttering closed, "but this isn't about me."

He appreciated that. It was one of the things he would remember as he lay down for the night. The way she'd refused to let him deflect the conversation, the way she'd let him, or perhaps even forced him, to talk. After weeks and months of running in circles around his own head, it was a relief to put his thoughts into words. "You're right about the Circle," he said after a moment. "Growing up there everything is about order and rules and the templars. The apprentices found ways to make that bearable," he slowed his pace slightly, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Karl and I... he was the first, we could forget that out in the world we were nothing more than templar slaves. We hadn't been together in a long time, but still, it hurt."

She pursed her lips. "I can't pretend to know what that would feel like," she said, "I'm sorry, truly."

He sighed, despite everything feeling calmer. Sadder yes, but less angry. "I just can't believe he's dead, and by my hand."

She halted for a moment, and he waited, watching the uncertainty gather in her face as she tried to put her thoughts together. She drew a breath, and looked him square in the eyes. "When we first met Aveline, her husband Wesley had contracted the Blight. She spared him..." she paused, and he didn't need to imagine what that could mean, "It was the noblest thing I'd ever seen, and the most loving," her jaw tightened, and she reaffirmed her gaze. "I'd sooner feel death creep through my veins than be Tranquil. Never doubt that you did the right thing."

Her resolve, the firmness of her stance and her words struck a chord deep within him. He smiled. "Stuff of childhood nightmares, hmm?"

"More or less," she muttered, glancing ahead to where Varric and Carver had stopped.

Cautiously, with as little noise as possible they caught up to the other pair. The dwarf glanced back at them over her shoulder. "Something up ahead," he whispered, "Might be these mercenaries."

"Good," Anders muttered, reaching for his staff, "I think I could do with unleashing some righteous fury."

* * *

><p>"Oh, now that's just classic," Carver interrupted, chuckling deeply.<p>

Ariadne sighed, adjusting herself slightly against the rugged stone of the wall. "I know, Carver, very funny indeed," she said drily.

"It is!" he insisted, pinching her lightly on the shoulder, "You thought he was... I mean, even when he was so patently flirting with you?"

She huffed with irritation. "I didn't exactly think so for _long_. Anyway, I was so nervous about that sort of thing back then that it was almost a relief."

"You mean you were _nervous_ about flirting with the strange glowy abomination boy?" he asked, eyes widening in faux-shock. "You don't say."

"Quiet you," she grumbled, "I could always put _you_ to sleep."

He laughed. "When you could simply do so with the dull story of your sad little life?" he replied, eyes glittering wickedly. "It seems like a bit of a waste to me."

She practically growled at that. "Remind me why am I healing you again?"

"Because if you didn't," he said, nudging her in the ribs playfully, "Mother would come back from the grave and nag you to death."

"I'll continue then."

"Go right ahead," he said, resettling himself against the wall, "but remember that I was there."

"Good point," she replied cheerfully, "I'll skip over that bit then."

* * *

><p>"I never forgot the look on her face the first time she saw Merrill using Blood Magic," he said quietly, his head resting on his knees once more. "I saw it countless times after, but the way her eyes burned then... I knew she'd rather die than take that step."<p>

The guide nodded, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. "Malcolm's distrust of Blood Magic had a profound effect on her."

"As did almost everything else he believed," he replied flatly.

"Looking back," the guide asked gently, "do you think that Flemeth knew what was coming?"

"I don't know," he said, shrugging off her touch, "I don't think I care."

"Ariadne cares," she said firmly, a hint of irritation in her young voice. "Those words have plagued her for years."

He looked up, turning to the guide with a frown. "And yet I don't find them here," he said, gesturing around him, "How can you be so sure?"

The guide shrugged, getting to her feet and walking away from him. "I'm a part of her," she said, her voice carrying over her shoulder, "her projection, her dream. Make of it what you will. I can say no more now."


	3. Contacts

_**Author's Note:**__ Just a quick note to say thanks for the great reviews so far, and the people who've favourite my story. _

_Ah own nuffink apart from mah banterz._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3: Contacts<strong>

The day had been a long one, and the fighting had been more than any of them had expected. The mountain was littered with the restless dead and its very air seemed unsettled. Despite their task being complete, Anders could sense that Hawke was unhappy with the unforeseen consequences of their actions, and despite his attempts to reassure her that she had acted with the best of intentions, her face remained stony.

There was, of course, the other problem. The elven girl, Merrill, was sweet even if she was horrendously misguided. Ariadne could not help but feel sorry for her when they left her in the Alienage, and her stomach twisted with guilt as the young elf asked if she would visit. Choosing her words carefully, she took the girl to one side.

"Listen, Merrill," she said quietly, "I feel for you. I can't imagine what it must be like to leave your people like that, to start a new life in a strange place whose customs mean nothing to you." She drew a breath, steadying herself. "But the fact remains that you're a Blood Mage. You made a pact with a _demon_. As long as that remains the case we can never be friends. I'm sorry."

They left shortly after, Ariadne wiping her eyes angrily with the back of her hand. She tried to do it when no-one was looking. She failed. Anders, watching, felt the need to reach out to her, patting her on the shoulder with sad smile. She reciprocated, and he cleared his throat.

"I think I need a drink after that," he said, to no-one in particular.

"You're welcome to join us at the Hanged Man," Varric replied.

"I'd like that," he said, watching as Carver bristled visibly.

The young man glanced back over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. "If you must, but if you're going to spend the whole night complimenting each other's spells, I'll be going home."

"You mean to the Blooming Rose," the dwarf muttered darkly.

"I..." Carver flushed angrily, "Of course not."

"Mhmm," Varric replied, pushing at the door to the inn.

Holding the door open to let Hawke and Anders in ahead of him, Carver's lip curled. "I hate you dwarf."

Ariadne chuckled, she couldn't help but appreciate the way Varric knew how to get under Carver's skin. "I wouldn't worry Carver," she said brightly, flicking him square in the chest. "I should imagine Varric will be doing most of the talking. It's not every day someone sees a woman turn into a dragon."

The dwarf laughed bitterly. "You really think I'm going to tell _that_ story?" he said, gesturing for Carver to get the round in at the bar. "They'll lock me up for sure!"

Anders mouthed the word 'Cider' at Carver before following the dwarf and his lady companion up the flight of stairs. She was positively giggling. "I wouldn't worry yourself too much," she said, squeezing Varric's shoulder as they made their way into what was obviously a private room. "I don't think there's a law against 'outrageous fiction'."

"Well," Varric said, dropping himself into a chair with a suggestive smile, "not the kind in which leather clad women turn into dragons, that's for certain."

Anders chuckled. "You know you say that, but I think you'll..." he trailed off, the implications of what he was suggesting dawning on him rather vividly. "Wait... that isn't an image I wanted in my head after all."

"No," the dwarf muttered, as the girl beside them burst out laughing. "No it isn't."

* * *

><p>Baiting Carver was both too easy, and rather more much fun than was probably healthy. All it took was a little suggestive comment to Hawke, or even to the boy himself and he was sputtering like a fussy old man. Add to that a little slightly too loud talk about mages and the effect was priceless.<p>

'Maker's breath I haven't had a drink in far too long.'

'_Do not push yourself. We know our limits.'_

Varric was busy chatting up some busty barmaid, and it was with great delight that he sent the lad off for the third round of drinks. Carver's dark brows and moody mutterings as he stalked back to the bar couldn't help but send Anders into a fit of giggles, which infected the prettier sibling quite delightfully. Giggling made her nose all crinkly.

"That boy," he said pointing a slightly wobbly finger down the staircase, "takes himself _far_ too seriously."

She rolled her eyes, leaning back in her seat to knock back the dregs of her drink. "Tell me about it," she sighed dramatically, making him giggle again. After a moment her face took on a slightly more serious expression. "Actually, while I've got you to myself, I should say one thing."

He wiggled his eyebrows. He would definitely be kicking himself for this in the morning. "Just the one?" he asked, smirking playfully.

She laughed at that, and he could sense that she was beginning to let her guard down. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that that lovely ruby hair of hers was escaping its bonds. "Before you start flirting with my brother," she said quietly, so that Varric wouldn't overhear them, "it's probably better that you know that he's strictly girls only, as far as I can make out."

That was slightly sobering. "You think I'd be... interested in Carver?"

She giggled, it really was a very pretty noise. "Well, you know..." she teased, putting on a mock-heavy frown. "All that _glaring_."

He laughed, taken by the way her blue eyes flashed with humour. "Really he's not my..." he faltered, finishing his drink and frowning.

'Does she think I'm...'

"Wait," he said pointedly.

"Problem?" she asked, smiling.

He frowned at her, trying to scrutinize her expression.

'_She is mocking us.'_

'I don't think she is.'

Just to look at her there, all frankness and friendly advice.

'She really thinks...'

"Just to be utterly, utterly clear," he said, putting his cup down carefully on the table. "I'm not... 'strictly boys only'."

Her surprise was genuine. "Oh," she said, leaving her mouth slightly open. Her lips were very pink, a very pretty pink.

'Don't get distracted now.'

"Just so you know," he said, reinforcing the point with a slight hand gesture of a non-descript variety.

Ariadne paused, not entirely sure she had processed what he said.

'Silly cider,' she thought vaguely.

"So you like girls too?" she asked, just to be entirely sure.

"Yes," he laughed, running a hand over his hair, resting it on the back of his neck for a moment, "I mean obviously yes."

She frowned. "Obviously?"

"Well yes!" he said, and she could see his cheeks colouring slightly. "I mean... earlier I was..."

Her eyes widened. "So you _were_?" she asked, embarrassed. "I didn't want to presume..."

"By all means," Anders said, nodding fervently, "Presume away."

Before he'd even finished the sentence he was cursing himself for it.

'Why can't I just keep my big mouth shut?'

'_There is a phrase, I believe: One cannot teach an old Mabari new tricks.'_

'Quiet, you.'

But he couldn't help the feeling that the little chuckle that escaped her lips as her cheeks turned ever so delicately pink made it absolutely worth it. "Maybe I will," she said, her lips twisting in a repressed smile.

At that moment Carver reappeared with a tray full of drinks and a sinfully sour expression. Suppressing a grin, Anders twisted his fingers and sent a little jolt of lightening straight for a region that made the boy yelp like a wounded puppy. As Hawke and Anders descended into giggles, Carver rubbed his rump as discreetly as he could before casting himself down into a chair with a grunt.

"I'm just throwing it out there, just as an observation," the boy muttered darkly. "But just once in a while I'd like to meet someone who _isn't_ a mage."

"What am I?" Varric asked, laughing heartily. "Chopped nug livers?"

"You know what," Anders sniggered. "That's the most dwarven thing I've heard you say all day."

* * *

><p>The fire was dying down again. She rose to feed it.<p>

"Well," Carver muttered, laughing at himself, "At least the whinging brother got his wish sooner than he was expecting."

With her back to him she thought she could disguise the look of unease that flittered over her face. "I suppose he did," she said quietly. She busied herself with the fire, trying to pretend to herself that all she was thinking about was how many different things you could do with cheese.

Behind her, Carver shifted himself slightly. "You weren't going to tell that bit of the story were you?" he asked, his tone serious. "You were just going to skip forward to Feynriel and those mages."

She didn't respond.

'Perhaps Rarebit could actually be made with Rabbit instead of bread. Then again, that was sort of a waste of the limited protein in their possession. Maybe I could find some sort of edible root.'

"I'm sorry sister," Carver persisted, interrupting her extremely serious and important chain of thought, "but all things considered there's no way you can avoid him."

She frowned into the fire, poking it from beneath a little more firmly than was necessary. "I suppose not," she said, with a hint of resignation.

Carver chuckled slightly as she returned to his open arm. "Not to mention it's basically the only point in the tale where I don't end up looking like a complete arse," he said teasingly.

* * *

><p>It was a week and a half before Ariadne took Varric and Carver to see Anders again, wandering into his clinic early one evening. Things had been fairly busy in the intervening time, for both sides, and it was with some considerable happiness that he welcomed them, or so it seemed. He looked tired, but in a stressed out rather than a physically exhausted way. His stubble was a little darker than usual. It suited him.<p>

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked, shaking the dwarf by the hand.

Varric shrugged. "We're tired of waiting for you to show up on your own," he said warmly. "So we figured we'd come down here to collect you. Diamondback, at the Hanged Man."

His smile brightened considerably. He really did have a very nice mouth. "You came to take me out to play cards?" he asked, surprised. "Oh Carver, I didn't know you cared."

Beside her, her brother snorted irritably. "Very funny mage boy. You're lucky I'm in a good mood."

"You are?" Varric asked, eyebrows raised. "Funny how much it looks like all your other moods."

Ever deep scowling deepened. "Tread carefully dwarf, or I swear..."

"What Junior?" the dwarf asked opening his palms. "That you'll let me trounce you at cards like you always do?"

A huff escaped Carver's lips. For once he seemed a little defeated. "One of these days," he muttered, "we won't need you."

"One of these days," Varric replied, turning and heading out of the clinic as if Anders' acceptance was a given, "you'll actually beat someone at Diamondback."

Hawke flashed a smile at Anders, and he followed her out, locking the door behind him. For once the clinic was empty, and he really did need to get some fresh air. "You really think so?" she asked Varric brightly, a lightness in her step that he hadn't seen before. "Personally I don't think we'll ever find anyone _that bad_."

They headed up into the first passage up to Lowtown. This early in the evening there was no need to worry about thugs. "So Blondie," Varric asked as they travelled into the fresh air, "what's your form?"

He couldn't help but chuckle at that."Blondie?"

"What?" the dwarf asked roguishly. "Is it too much of an imaginative leap for you? Or do you prefer to think of yourself as a brunette?"

"I'm just..." he paused, trying to put his finger on the confusion, "not used to picking up nicknames is all."

The dwarf tittered appreciatively. "Anyway," he said warmly, "you didn't answer my question. What style do you play?"

Anders frowned, perplexed. "There's... more than one style to Diamondback?"

A smirk curved Varric's lip as he patted Carver roughly on the back. "Ladies and gentlemen, I think we might have ourselves a contender."

* * *

><p>It was painfully, painfully good to be in the open air. No amount of healing could undo the knot that slowly wound itself in Anders' chest every time he deprived himself of the sky. He couldn't help but feel lighter, refreshed, <em>cheerful<em>.

"So," he asked happily, walking beside Hawke with just the slightest spring in his step, "any escapades in the offing? My life has been sadly lacking in fresh air and life or death situations."

The grin she responded with was not only extremely pretty, wrinkling her nose ever so slightly as it did, but a sign that she was in a really fantastic mood. "As it happens, there is something," she said animatedly. "Some dwarf called Anso wants us to meet him in Lowtown Market tonight. I thought we'd drop by on the way to the inn..."

"Oh no," Carver interjected, his tone scolding, "I know where this is going."

Her face was the picture of innocence, apart from the wicked twinkle in her eyes. "What do you mean?" she asked, poking a foot to kick her brother lightly in the back of the ankle.

The look he gave her as he turned was only half-annoyed. "Don't tell me you weren't just about to say: 'It shouldn't take long.'"

She shrugged, holding her hands up. "Well it _shouldn't_," she said teasingly.

Carver groaned. "You _always_ say that, and then it _always_ does."

"That's an exaggeration!" Hawke replied, pouting exaggeratedly as she skipped ahead to walk alongside her brother.

"If you say so," Carver replied, mockingly, "but if anything happens to our benevolent dwarven friend here, I'm blaming you."

Her brother's mentioning the dwarf seemed to remind Hawke of something. "Oh! Speaking of which!" she exclaimed, turning to walk backwards, her expression pleading. "Varric?"

The dwarf's eyes narrowed. "Hawke," he replied curtly.

She looked down at him with wide eyes, eyelashes fluttering. "You know how we're friends?" she said, her voice sounding far more innocent and childlike than it usually did.

"I prefer the term 'associates with social leanings'," Varric retorted sarcastically, "but I'm listening."

She leant forward slightly, her lower lip jutting slightly. "I don't suppose you could... look after another book for me?"

The dwarf grunted irritably, rolling his eyes. "Another one? Hawke that's the fifth this week."

Now those rosy lips turned into a fully fledged pout. "But I finished it," she pleaded, her blue eyes needy and youthful, "and you know I can't keep it at Gamlen's. It'll get... eaten by rats, or worse..." she said, lowering her voice to a whisper, "Gamlen might _touch_ it."

Anders snorted with laughter, and Hawke shot him a sharp look.

"Then do what other people do Hawke," the dwarf drawled, dusting absent-mindedly at some dust on his coat. "Sell it on."

Again the eyes widened, if that were even possible. "But I...," she mumbled, her voice trembling exaggeratedly, "It's my _favourite_."

Varric wasn't falling for it. "And so was the last one. And the one before that."

Carefully, still walking slowly backward, Hawke drew a battered tome from her satchel. As she held it before the dwarf's nose, Anders could just make out the words on the spine: _A History of Slavery in Kirkwall Vol.I_.

'Just a bit of light reading then. Nothing too heavy.'

"But the books on your shelves look so lonely," she crooned, waving it slightly. "It's only for a while, I promise."

Carver laughed, glancing back over his shoulder. "There's no point arguing Varric," he said. "She'll just nag at you until you give in."

The dwarf looked up at the girl. "Will you?"

Her smiled spread into a broad grin. "Pretty much," she said brightly.

He sighed, opening his bag. "Toss it in the sack then sweetheart," he said resignedly, "I'll put it up just as soon as I get home."

Dropping the book in his bag, the girl leant forward to pinch the dwarf's cheek. "You are a lovely dwarf," she said warmly. "I love you Varric."

The dwarf grumbled, "Flattery is unnecessary at this point Hawke. I already gave in."

Anders was chuckling lightly as she turned back to talk more with her brother. "They seem to be in good moods," he remarked, gesturing at the other two. Hawke was poking her brother in the ribs and he was only half-heartedly fighting her off.

The dwarf snickered, unable to maintain his facade of annoyance. "They earned themselves quite a bit of gold today. This expedition might not be so far-fetched as they thought."Ahead of them, Carver gave his sister a gentle shove and a half-smile. "Don't expect it to happen too often though."

* * *

><p>The air rushing up to him was unreal, lacking that freshness of humidity and that bitter salty tang. "Carver wasn't always a total arse," he said, leaning forward to peer down at the waves crashing against the rocks. "I forget that sometimes."<p>

Stood a few paces back from him, the guide was looking up at a castle, ranged along the cliffs a mile or so distant. He turned to her, seeing that the sight of it distracted her, a confused look in her brown eyes.

"It's Highever," he called out over the whistling not-quite-wind, "The Teryn's castle. I came here on my third escape attempt."

She glanced at him, her frowned creasing her young brow.

"You recognise it?" he asked stepping back from the edge.

The frown deepened. "Sort of," she said. "Maybe when I... maybe she came here once."

"Then you're a Ferelden," he remarked, slinging his coat down on the rough scrubby ground and lying himself back on it. "Not that I'm surprised. The accent is a bit of a giveaway."

She shook her head, sitting down beside him. "You were talking about Carver," she said, trying to bring the conversation back to the matter in hand.

"I was," he said, adjusting his back slightly, and closing his eyes. "I said he wasn't always a complete tosser."

"It is easy to forget such things when you don't spend a lot of time with someone," she said quietly.

His eyes flew open. "But I have..." he trailed off, his brows knitting in confusion, "I mean... I have been..."

She looked concerned, her face framed in her halo of perfect black hair. "Is something wrong?" she asked kindly.

He sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. "I just... can't remember where I was before I was here," he said softly.

She smiled, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You're being told a story," she said, "it doesn't do to know the ending."

"But I remember the Chantry," he said, frowning deeply, "I remember leaving Kirkwall... the ship."

She shrugged. "Then those things aren't the end of the story."

He looked at her, her soft impassive face so maddeningly familiar. "And you can't tell me?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I'm the guide," she replied, smiling slightly, "not the instruction manual."

He sighed, lying himself back on his coat. "Are you meant to make jokes?" he grumbled.

"Only on special occasions," she said cheerfully, "or when I see a good opportunity."

* * *

><p>Anso's 'job' had turned out to be little more than a ruse. Its mastermind was an elf, who promised that there would still be reward if they helped him oust his slaver master from a mansion in Hightown. Still heady from battle, Hawke had agreed to help, promising Carver that: 'It shouldn't take long.' Varric had left them to it at that point, claiming that he was too thirsty to go chasing after Tevinters and that he'd have drinks waiting for them on their return. They had followed the elf, Fenris, into the house he claimed was inhabited by his former master. The intention was that they would confront him, but in the end all they found was a small army of shades and demons. Discovering that Danarius was absent, Fenris had left the mansion to allow them to pick up any valuables left lying about. Under the circumstances, they'd been thorough in their search, with Hawke in particular hoping to find at least some sort of halfway decent robe that might replace her increasingly ragged armour.<p>

Despite everything, Carver was still in a fairly decent mood as they entered the last room. The shades that attacked them there came as a bit of a surprise, but they were straightforward enough to put down. The second wave, however was more challenging, and Hawke was thrown off her feet into a corner. Carver swept in to defend her, felling the spirits in one fell swoop. As the last few disappeared back into the earth he laughed, twirling his sword in his hand as he turned to her.

"Honestly sister, what would you delicate mage-flowers do without us proper fighters?" he jeered good-naturedly, grinning teasingly until he turned to see her. Anders followed his gaze. Hawke wasn't moving, still slumped down on the ground.

"Ariadne!" Carver shouted, dashing over to her with Anders just behind. He knelt in front of her, grabbing her hand and reaching for her cheek. At the feel of his touch Hawke stirred, her vision wavering.

"Carver?" she murmured, trying to focus on his face. "Carver I'm fine."

Anders moved forward, standing on the other side of her with his hands aglow. Carver looked up at him, his expression fearful.

"Is she?" he asked, "Is she going to be alright?"

He smiled reassuringly. "She's fine, honestly Carver. It's nothing more than a bump to the head," he said calmly, helping the young man get her to her feet, jumping slightly when she cried out in pain as they set her on her feet. He coloured with embarrassment. "Possibly a broken ankle."

He dropped to his knees, letting Carver support her with an arm under the shoulder as his hands healed her ankle. Soon enough she could put weight on it again, though it clearly still felt tender. Carver insisted on helping her out of the building himself, and although the differences in their heights alone made the process more awkward for her than was entirely necessary, her slightly weary smile was proof enough that she appreciated it.

They had almost forgotten about Fenris by the time they got out of the building, but they found the elf leaning up against the ivy outside the mansion. He spoke before they had a chance to.

The mage hatred had seemed inevitable from the moment he had first mentioned the Tevinter magisters, but the sneer in his impossibly gravelly voice ('He's an elf. Where does that noise even _come_ from?') was a bit of a surprise. Given the fact that they had just helped him fight off a whole load of monsters to no good purpose, his accusatory tone seemed... well, _unnecessary_.

Clearly Hawke felt so too as, detaching herself from her brother's support, she stepped forward carefully, her voice carrying more than a little bite as she told him she wasn't 'seeking' anything.

The elf didn't seem to believe her, but before she could reply Carver had stepped forward, his voice defensive.

'Good on you Carver, you tell the crazy heart-removing elf who's boss.'

The elf's apologies were formal enough, but he went on, of all things, to offer his assistance.

'_Surely she cannot accept that?'_

He could see from her face that there was no way she was going to accept that. Eyeing him warily, she questioned his motives, reminding him that she wasn't exactly going to stop being a mage at any point in the near future.

He replied quickly enough.

'Is every other word out of his mouth going to carry some veiled threat? Can he even imagine that she would accept this?'

Once again he refused to be more explicit with his intentions, and Ariadne could feel herself bristling with every word that came out of his mouth. And now the conundrum.

'Why is it always up to me to make the decisions?'

Given what she'd heard she had little to no doubt that he would betray her at the slightest opportunity. There was only one solution.

'The fool is clearly going to betray us all at the first opportunity,' Anders thought angrily. 'There's only one way to respond.'

"I'm planning an expedition I might need help with," she said.

'Wait... what?'

And now the elf was agreeing, claiming to be at her disposal. Surely Anders was hearing things? Either that or he'd gone mad. He turned to look at her, palms upturned in a silent: What in the void are you thinking?

Turning to grasp her brother's arm she waved his question away. "Later, alright? I could _really_ use that drink."

* * *

><p>Wanting to avoid getting into any unnecessary arguments, Anders waited until Carver was at the bar getting the second round before he brought the issue up again. "So are you sure about keeping this Fenris guy close?" he asked, looking up at her over his tankard. "He seems pretty anti-mage."<p>

Even though she'd known it was coming Ariadne sighed again, adjusting her foot slightly on the stool. This really wasn't something she wanted to discuss, but she did owe Anders an explanation. "Not really," she said, sounding somewhat defeated as she glanced over at her brother, "but it seems better than having him run around behind our backs making trouble." She paused to take a sip of her cider. "Not that I think the templars would have him."

He sniggered at that, leaning back in his seat. "What's that?" he quipped, his voice officious and pompous. "You've got _raw lyrium_ embedded in your skin? How about you come to our cosy office for a nice _vivisection_... I mean chat."

She smiled appreciatively. "Exactly," she said, furrowing her brows in mock-puzzlement. "What's that clichéd saying?"

"Keep your friends close," he said playfully, leaning in towards her, "and your enemies closer?"

She pushed him back in his seat. "No, not that one..." She paused, musing. "Ah! I've got it: Never let an elf with weird markings and a pronounced mage loathing run about so he can stab you in the back."

Grinning, Anders slapped himself in the forehead. "Oh _that_ one," he replied. "I like that one. It's pithy."

As Carver and Varric returned with drinks, a messenger arrived in the tavern looking for Hawke. She took the note with a scowl, tucking it under her pint without so much as opening it.

"Again?" Carver asked, frowning at her, as he pulled up the chair opposite. "Ariadne, that's the second message this week. What is it with Athenril?"

She shook her head. "It's nothing," she said irritably. "_Really_. She just wants to see me."

"But why?" he persisted, leaning forward. "We're not indebted to her any more. Why is she.."

Hawke interrupted him, her expression evasive. "Because we parted on bad terms."

The boy laughed. "So what?" he exclaimed. "I didn't exactly leave her with flowers and a handshake either."

The girl groaned slightly, pressing her hand over her right eye. "Carver..." she muttered, "we _parted_ on bad terms."

Anders frowned. 'Did she just say...'

Carver's eyes widened. "You... what?" he replied in a half-strangled gasped. "You and Athenril? I thought you and Benny were..."

"No Carver," she sighed, her cheeks a furious red. "It wasn't like that..."

Varric was already chuckling. "Now this I've gotta hear."

She glared at the dwarf. "Maker's breath really?" she said, before relenting with a sigh. "Fine. Athenril and I had a... thing. It started just after that trip we made out to that cavern with the..." she glanced over at her brother, "less than savoury Orlesian goods?"

Carver nearly spat his pint all over the table. "You mean those sex toys?" he exclaimed, the colour draining from his face. "Oh shit. Maybe I don't want to know."

"I'm not going to go in to details!" she replied, covering her burning cheeks with her hands. "Whatever. I thought it was just casual. Fun, but casual. We didn't exactly spend much time chatting," she shot Varric a sharp glance as he snorted. "Our year was coming to an end, and suddenly Athenril was talking about getting me into the business properly. Becoming a partner." She paused, running her hands over her hair, inadvertently loosening more strands from her tie. "I was freaked out. I only joined her because the frying pan seemed better than the fire, I didn't want to be a smuggler, and I certainly didn't intend to..." She trailed off, her blue eyes framed with deep embarrassment. "Anyway, that's when I slept with Benny."

"Wait a minute," the dwarf interjected excitedly. "You cheated on Athenril with her right hand man? No wonder your contract ended so abruptly!" He burst out laughing.

"The contract was already over!" she exclaimed, putting her head in her hands. "I just..." she paused, "tendered my resignation in a slightly spectacular fashion... on her desk."

Even he had to laugh at that.

Carver, by contrast, did not find it amusing. "Benny _and_ Athenril? I'm surprised you're not riddled with disease!"

She shot her brother a dirty look. "Yes," she said irritably, "because I sleep with two people in as many years I'm the biggest whore in Kirkwall. That makes sense, Carver. Might I remind you how much of your coin goes into Madame Lusine's pocket?"

"It does not!"

She decided to cut off the bickering before it even began. "Get bent Carver," she said angrily. "I'm not in the mood. It happened, it was a disaster and now it's over. I'm not proud of myself."

"I should bloody hope not," he replied, downing the rest of his pint. "I'm getting another drink."

She watched her brother rise and return to the bar. "We were getting on so well too," she grumbled bitterly.

Varric waved a hand vaguely, looking at her with a raised eyebrow. "So, Benny?" he asked, smirking. "I didn't figure scrawny pencil-pushers would be your type."

Ariadne sighed again. This was _not _something she'd wanted to talk about. "They're not," she said resting her forehead against her palms, "generally. Not that I really _have_ a type.

"Like I said, Athenril and I never really talked. Sure sometimes we argued." She smirked slightly. "In fact we seemed to spend most of our time making up for some row or another, but apart from that we were like ships in the night..." She gestured, passing her hands over each other. "Benny was always there at the base, more often than not I'd chat to him while I was waiting for her to show up. He was sweet, in a sort of..." she leant back slightly in her seat, frowning slightly, "scrawny and pathetic way. Anyway Athenril and I had been arguing about the whole 'end of contract' thing and he was sort of... there." Her cheeks darkened again. "Like I said, I'm not proud of it."

Anders couldn't resist. "So," he said, leaning towards her with a smirk twisting his lips, "you're not 'strictly boys only' either?"

* * *

><p>"I always did like the fact that she was open-minded," he said with a chuckle, relaxing back against a twisted tree. "If nothing else it certainly led to some interesting conversations."<p>

The guide shifted uneasily beside him. "That's..." she murmured, fiddling slightly with the edge of her robe, "nice I suppose."

He glanced at her, frowning. "Are you blushing?"

"No!" she said, her eyes widening slightly. "No of course I'm not."

He chuckled, eyebrow rising doubtfully. "Are projections supposed to blush?"

She turned her face away. "I'm _not_ blushing."

"Listen," he whispered conspiratorially, "if you're going to get embarrassed, you might want to close your eyes for a good... sixty percent of what we're going to see. She and I were lovers."

"I know that," the guide replied irritably, sweeping her hair from her face in a strangely familiar gesture. "I just... reserve the right to feel slightly uncomfortable."

As he laughed, a small part of him had the feeling that he hadn't laughed in a long time. "You're certainly a strange guide," he said, shaking his head as his vision clouded once more.

-X-

The evening wore on, and Anders found his curiosity plaguing him. Carver and Varric were chatting animatedly to a barmaid, and once again he found himself with ample opportunity to get to know Hawke a little better. Waiting for a lull in the conversation, he asked the question that had been on his mind since the mansion.

"So you're an Ariadne, are you?" he asked, smiling warmly. "Not exactly what I would have expected."

The question mildly choked the young woman. "Oh?" she asked, coughing slightly. "Am I more of a Gwendolyn? I always thought of myself as more of a Gwen."

He rolled his eyes at her, putting his drink down on the table. "It's just..." he paused, searching for the right word, "poetic I suppose. Not many people are named after epic heroines."

She laughed brightly. "Tell that to Aveline," she said, and then suddenly stopped. "Not that she knows." The thought seemed to trouble her for a moment, but then she shrugged. "Everyone just tends to call me 'Hawke'."

He smiled. "Your brother was worried about you, back at the mansion."

"Do you think so?" she asked, looking at him searchingly. "My mother only seems to use it when she's really angry."

He chuckled. "Well she should use it more often," he said, taking a sip of his drink. "It suits you, I think."

She frowned at that. "Because it's _poetic_?"

He shrugged, taking another drink. "For starters," he said, vaguely.

She pursed her lips slightly at that, looking uncertain. "Well," she said eventually, "if you like it so much, go ahead and use it."

It took everything in his power not to grin at that. He repressed the smile as best he could. "Perhaps I will," he said, his voice purring slightly.

* * *

><p>Carver's chuckling rang brightly against the cavern walls. "So you bonded over your mutual bisexual escapades?" he asked, cocking his head slightly. "How sweet!"<p>

She smacked him lightly on the forearm. "Quiet you," she grumbled. "Having to explain that was the... second most embarrassing experience of my life."

He feigned a pathetic expression. "Oh boo hoo," he said, pouting ridiculously. "You know nothing of humiliation until you've joined the templars."

She grimaced slightly. "I'm not sure I needed to know that."

He grinned at that, leaning his head back against the wall. "I still can't believe you let him call you by your first name," he said incredulously. "Just like that."

"I liked him, alright?" she said grudgingly. "We've established this by now."

He shrugged, his mouth twisting in thought. "I should imagine the honour was somewhat lost on him anyway."

"I... I don't think it was," she replied quietly.

Her brother snorted with laughter. "You know, with him doing his whole 'I'll just hurt you' act, and you dancing around the issue, I'm surprised the two of you ever got anything off the ground at all."

She sighed at that, leaning in to his shoulder. "Might I point out that it _did_ take us three years... more or less."

"A good point."

"Also," she said gently, wrapping an arm around his waist, "the 'I'll hurt you' thing came later. Stop mucking up the order, alright?"

He nodded. "Yes, ser."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Thanks for reading so far, please review!<em>**


	4. Patience

_**Author's Note:**__ This chapter contains a great deal of love and affection for the amazing artist Pseudocognition – whose fantastic artwork can be found here (remove the spaces):_

_http:/ browse. deviantart. com/ ?qh=§ion=&global=1&q= pseudocognition# /d38w6sv_

_UPDATE: This chapter now has its own picture: 'The Benefits of Losing' by the fantastic Yamisnuffles. Please check it out!_

_http:/ mandamcmoo. deviantart. com/ favourites/#/ d3eaz7j_

_As always, I disclaim. Bioware owns everything :)_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4: Patience<strong>

A week or so after they had met the elf, Fenris, Anders was summoned to help Hawke, Aveline and Carver clear out the members of a gang calling themselves, of all things, the Redwater Teeth. The battle was swift and straightforward, with nothing particular of note except that Hawke took a crossbow bolt to the shoulder. With the battle over, Aveline returned to the barracks, and Carver headed off to the Blooming Rose to spend his portion of the coin they had collected while Anders worked on patching up their fearless leader.

Sitting on a packing crate on the water's edge, the full moonlight shining down on her, he couldn't help but wonder how it was possible for a human being to be so pretty and so scruffy at the same time. With her hair all but escaped from her untidy ponytail, her armour fraying badly and her arm drenched in her own blood, the light in her eyes could still easily have outshone any other girl he'd met.

"So," he teased, pulling her armoured padding over her head, "do you come here often?"

Swinging her legs slightly off the edge of the crate, Ariadne giggled. "Ooh, that's a good one," she said, looking up at him with her almond shaped eyes,. "How about: 'Aren't you tired? Because you've been running around my head all day.'"

He tore the fabric of her vest to expose the wound, arrow still firmly lodged into the joint. Taking the bait gladly he grinned and conjured a ball of ice in his palm, dropping it at her feet and crushing it underfoot. "Now I've broken the ice," he said, his eyebrows twitching suggestively. "Can I buy you a drink?"

She laughed at that, her eyes dancing brightly in the moonlight until the pain caught up with her. "Ow!" she said, stopping abruptly as her hand flew to her shoulder. He caught it in his own, pressing it back down against her collar bone.

"Don't," he said calmly, his fingertips pressing gently down on her hand. "You'll only make it worse."

He worked quickly, getting her to bite on a belt from one of his pauldrons as he braced himself to wrench the bolt free. It was a hard job, and he knew that the withdrawal did a good deal more damage than the initial entry did when she groaned deeply through her clenched teeth. The bolt was intact however, and with a little splash of alcohol from his canteen to clean the wound of dirt, which if anything made her groan even more, he was able to move swiftly onto the task of getting her healed.

Once he pronounced her mended, she hopped off the crate, rolling her shoulder lightly, and then dragged him off towards Lowtown, and the Hanged Man.

They chatted happily, despite the fact that she was still covered in her own blood and that her smile of thanks was doing funny things to his chest. At the bottom of Lowtown, however, they hushed at the sound of voices.

"I don't care what you say, elf," a harsh Starkhaven brogue echoed around the corner. "That isn't the price that we agreed."

"I've got it in writing, you ass," a female voice drawled. "Now stop giving me grief and get back to your job."

He turned at the sound of a muffled gasp, Ariadne's blue eyes were wide.

"Athenril," she whispered.

It was clear enough from the tone of the voices that a deal was going sour, and quickly.

"Hand over the money, bitch," the first voice, a man, growled, "or I gut you right here."

"You wouldn't _dare_," the second, Athenril's, replied, "We outnumber you three to one."

The man from Starkhaven chuckled. "That's just where you're wrong, missy. What a pity your pet mage is too busy up in Lowtown these days to save your hide."

In an instant, Ariadne was gone from his side. He watched around the corner, just keeping out of sight. "That's where you're wrong, Conall," she growled, one hand on her staff as she entered the scene. "I'm right here."

She placed herself between the two groups: a small group of elves in the same armour as Ariadne, and a larger contingent of leathered bandits, several of whom had clearly just dropped in on the confrontation. Their leader, a bearded man with greying temples, was clearly taken aback. "Hawke?" he said,."You're still running around at this bitch's bark?"

"That," she replied, her grip tightening on her weapon, "is none of your concern. If I were you I would back away. You're out of your depth, and you know it."

The Starkhaven warrior's lip curled, "You're a fool if you think I'm scared of one pesky little mage, Hawke."

Clearing his throat, Anders stepped into the proceedings. "Make that _two_ pesky little mages," he said firmly, standing at his friend's side, turning to her with a grin. "What do you say Hawke, shall we roast them?"

Needless to say, the encounter ended quietly, with the Starkhaven ruffians backing down. As they passed out of sight, Ariadne turned to face the lead elf. She was tall and lean, with a pretty face worn harsh by years of sour expressions. She regarded them coldly, even as Hawke enquired after her wellbeing.

"Well enough," she responded coolly, slinging a sack onto her shoulders. "I should have known that you'd show up. Always figured you'd come slinking back."

Beside him, Hawke stiffened visibly, any shred of warmth vanishing from her voice as she responded: "I'm not 'back' Athenril. I'm just passing through."

A smirk twisted the elf's lip. "How _coincidental_," she drawled, sweeping her fringe from her eyes. "Who's your friend?"

Without even turning his head he could _feel_ the tension rising in his companion, the increase in magic in the air. "A friend," she said, her jaw tightened.

"He's pretty," she replied, regarding him openly with her steely gaze. "Much more your type than that fat ass dwarf."

Now _he_ felt his body tensing. "Varric," Ariadne said quietly, her voice as cold as ice, "is _also_ my friend."

"My my," the elf responded stepping closer with a flash in her gaze that might almost have been a seduction. "You have quite the knack of attracting people into your webs, don't you?" She approached Ariadne far closer than he would have liked, her very tone a challenge. "How good are you at keeping them, I wonder?"

He didn't need to glance at the woman beside him to know the game that was being played. The sparks between the two women could go either of two ways. It wasn't his place to intervene in her affairs, as much as he found himself wanting to.

Hawke sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I'm done Athenril," she said drily, defeated. "We're even. Come on Anders."

The walk to the pub was a silent one, pitted with the noise of boots scuffing unnecessarily on stones and a hundred un-started rants. He let her go to the bar while he took up his spot at their usual table, pretended not to notice the shot of spirits she downed before her return, and waited for her to start the conversation.

The question, when it came, was not the one that he'd been expecting.

"Anders," she asked, not really looking up from her tankard, "did you love Karl?"

His breath hissed as he drew it, caught off guard as he was. "That's a personal question."

She nodded, staring deep into her cider before she drank. "It is."

He leant forward, unable to stop himself from asking the inevitable. "Did you love Athenril?"

She laughed, a harsh, bitter sound unlike any he had ever heard from her. "I think my conduct towards her speaks for itself," she said coldly, shaking her head. "No. I never loved her.

She paused, something creeping into her gaze and constricting her throat, a memory, or so it seemed. "I thought I loved someone once," she said quietly, her jaw clenching, "but I was too young... and he was the wrong man," She drew a deep breath, looking him in the eye with startling earnestness. "Since then I've never come close to that feeling, even though it was a lie. I've cared for some, and desired others. Before I came here I was good to them, or as good as I could be."

Her open gaze was a challenge, daring him to understand. "What changed?" he asked, hearing the slight drop in his voice's pitch as if it belonged to another man.

"I was angry," she said, her blue eyes darkening as she drank deeply. "Angry at being forced into servitude, at my uncle, at the nature of the work. More than anything I was angry at her," she said, jabbing her finger into the table to reinforce the point. "Every time I took an assignment it felt like an exploitation."

He tried to hold his calm, even as the implication of her words stirred something basic and protective inside of him. "You felt abused by Athenril?"

The tension dropped out of her shoulders, as if she hadn't the energy left to keep up the fight. "No," she said plainly, covering her tankard with her hand. "We abused each other. Everything I hated about my life, myself, I took it out on her. Every vile word, every harsh caress." She sighed, her eyes as hollow as her voice. "I despised myself for it, but I didn't stop. I just kept going back, playing her game, trying to get the upper hand and always failing."

She stopped herself, slipping her hand over her mouth as if to dam up the vitriol that was pouring out. She squeezed her eyes shut. "I'm sorry for it," she said quietly, "but I don't know how to undo it, or if I even can."

He hesitated, unsure how to respond. He decided that the best thing he had to offer her was the truth. "I never loved Karl," he said gently, the emotion straining his voice. "At least not in the sense of being _in_ love with him, which is what I suspect you mean."

She nodded, seemingly unable to look at him. "It is."

He drew a deep breath, and opened himself. "The truth is that I've never let myself love anyone," he said, aware that his vision was fogging slightly. "It seemed impossible, too dangerous, too much of a risk."

He looked up at her, his eyes connecting with hers. A moment of recognition. "Exactly," she whispered, though it hardly needed to be said.

He broke their gaze, rubbing his fingertips over his forehead. "I cared for Karl a great deal," he said sadly, softly. "Sometimes that was enough."

For a moment, it looked as if she was on the verge of saying something, but suddenly Varric appeared at the head of the stairs. Neither of them were in the mood to talk, but it was Hawke who got to her feet first. "I should go," she said quickly, automatically. "Mother will be worrying. You don't need to walk me home."

"If you're sure," he replied, seeing the itch in her he knew so well in himself, the need to run.

"I am," she said, her eyes meeting his for the merest moment. "Thank you."

* * *

><p>"Once," he said, his voice like a cool breeze through the stagnant Fade air, "I told her that hearing her talk about her life was like looking into a window on my own past. What attracted me to her, back then at least, was just how much she reminded me of myself."<p>

"The last time I checked," the guide replied teasingly, "Ariadne didn't have a perverted Fade spirit living inside her mind."

"I meant back in Amaranthine!" he snapped back, staring at her openly. "I'm here to separate myself from him, aren't I? Surely it's better that I focus on the things that were mine, and mine alone?"

She didn't respond, her eyes wide with surprise. "I thought as much," he muttered darkly, closing his eyes again as the visions seethed into life. "And don't think I'll forget that you used her name."

* * *

><p>Weeks passed, and aside from the occasional excursion to the lands of danger and potential profit, the majority of Anders' meetings with the group were confined to the Hanged Man. Although Varric occasionally liked to imagine what life would be like once the Hawke family had reclaimed that estate of theirs, the truth was that even at its dirtiest, loudest and most violent, the inn felt more like a home to all of them than any other place in the city. Even Fenris, who had at first remained relatively aloof from their proceedings, had taken to hovering in their midst like a skinny, brooding thundercloud. Prodding him was more fun than it had any right to be. Almost as satisfying as irritating Carver.<p>

Hawke often joined him in his teasing, although she had been known to simply sit and listen to what the elf had to say. It was a courtesy she'd extended to all their companions, a simple gift of her time and a listening ear. Despite his better instincts, however, he couldn't help but feel the smallest twinge of resentment when she made her way to Fenris' corner.

The addition of former captain Isabela to their gatherings was both incredibly welcome and invigorating, although not necessarily at the same time. With her wicked sense of humour and her penchant for all things erotic, she'd certainly injected quite a spark into their little gatherings. The so-called pirate had made a bee-line for Hawke from the moment they'd met, and her unabashed flirting with the girl had provided more than ample cover for his own quiet words.

And therein lay the problem - the truth was that no matter how hard he tried to stop himself, he couldn't help himself when he was around her. A small smile, a straying strand of hair, even a poorly timed joke was all it took to set him off sending little compliments, suggestive hints or jokes in her direction. Perhaps this wouldn't matter if she were oblivious to such things like Aveline or a constant flirt like Isabela, but the truth was that it had taken time for her to warm up to the idea and now, in the last few weeks, she was starting to respond more seriously.

It took patience and concentration to truly excel in any game of cards, and Diamondback was no exception. Even at the best of times Ariadne had to work hard to stay in the game, but with the introduction of Isabela's special rules that was easier said than done.

"I don't know about all of you," Anders groaned across the table from her, "but sometimes I miss the days when we played this game with our clothes _on_."

Isabella, still fully clothed (if you could call it that) leant across Varric to pat him affectionately on the shoulder. "Is it because you can't bear the sexual tension between you and Fenris?" she purred, smiling sweetly at the elf beside him, "It is, isn't it?"

To the other side of Fenris Carver glowered, tapping his cards on the tabletop. "I swear," he growled, as Anders stood up, "if I have to watch that mage take off his shirt one... more... time."

"Junior," Varric whispered, his full set of clothing still intact, "no one said you have to _watch_."

Ariadne wasn't the worst Diamondback player in the world, and in the present company, that stood her rather well. As ever, Carver had lost shoes, overshirt, and belts within the first three rounds, and Merrill's scarf, gloves and boots had been discarded with them. Fenris generally fared better, but tonight the loss of his boots and gauntlets had occurred in quick succession, suggesting worse luck yet to come. Of Anders... perhaps the less to be said the better. Despite having the largest number of items of clothing, the mage was once again reduced to sitting in his underclothes. There was little doubt that, as on most nights, these wouldn't last long. This generally didn't pose a problem, as she sat opposite from him in these games as a rule.

The problem tonight was that when she started to get nervous about her game, as she was this evening, that she had this habit of spinning her chips on the table. She wasn't particularly good at spinning chips on the table, in fact they had the terrifying tendency to fall off the edge. At such points, the mere thought of having to glance under the table was more than she could stand. She'd lost a lot of chips that way.

That chip-spinning thing that Ariadne did was almost the perfect tell, and Anders could tell that Isabela had noticed it. The pirate was going to press her advantage tonight, and in all honestly, it was about time someone got the girl to lose more than just her armouring.

'Bad Anders, very bad...'

'_It does seem an injustice.'_

'Wait... what?'

"Isabela," Ariadne sighed, pointing at the card slipping from the pirate's gauntlet, "please stop cheating. I can _see_ you."

Grumbling, the buxom seafarer cast her extra aces down on the table. "One of these days, Hawke," she said, her eyes flashing teasingly. "I'll finally get to see you in your knickers."

"I certainly hope so," Merrill piped up cheerfully. "This exposure all seems terribly one-sided."

Sitting beside her, Carver sniggered derisively. "You should have been around when we were kids," he said to the elf. "She used to run around in her knickers all the time."

"Carver!" Ariadne exclaimed, her cheeks flushing magenta. "You are just making that up!" she said, pointing across at him, her voice slightly high pitched, "He is just making that up!"

Varric sniggered, dealing her two extra cards. "Of course he is, Hawke."

"Carver," she muttered darkly, "I swear I will set you on _fire_." A threat her glower seemed to confirm.

"No violence," Isabela said, perusing her cards carefully. "This is a lovers game, children."

"Might I point out that she's my sister?"

"You don't say!" Varric exclaimed with raised eyebrows. "I can't believe I missed that one."

With a flourish, Isabela placed her move down on the table. Her eyes glittered mischievously. "Fenris!" she purred, her tongue ever-so-slightly brushing her upper lip. "Looks like it's finally time for us to see how far those tattoos go..."

Beside him the elf's cheeks coloured slightly "I..." he faltered, getting abruptly to his feet. "This is a foolish game. I will have no more of it."

The wicked sea captain leant back in her seat, hissing through her teeth. "Someone's just grumpy because they were hoping to see Hawke get out of her armour," she said teasingly.

"I was not!" Fenris retorted sharply, though Anders could not help but notice that his cheeks darkened.

"Hold steady friend," Varric said, looking over his cards with a barely repressed grin. "I do believe that _I_ have the cards to do the job."

The elf hesitated momentarily. "Perhaps I will take another turn," he muttered gruffly, returning to his seat.

"Uh, uh uh!" chided Isabela, waggling her finger like some overbearing schoolmistress. "No sitting down at the table without taking off that jacket. Thems the rules."

Scowling darkly at the pirate, the elf moved to the clasps on the right-hand side of his armour. "You had better have a good hand, dwarf."

"Believe me," Varric chuckled, spreading his move down in front of Ariadne with a satisfied smirk, "I do."

The look of hopelessness on her face was utterly priceless. Not making eye contact with anyone, she reached for the bottom of her undershirt. "I feel utterly victimised."

Carver groaned, dropping is head onto his arms. "Shall I vomit now or later?"

The vest was close fitting, and Ariadne needed to squirm slightly in her seat to get it off. Holding it up in the air beside her for a moment she dropped it behind her onto the pile with her padding and boots. She glanced quickly down to check that her bindings weren't coming unravelled, and realized that it was a good thing Varric's rooms were always warm. Given that today was a rest day she hadn't exactly gone overboard with the binding. "That should be sufficient," she said quietly, wondering if it was possible for cheeks to catch light from embarrassment.

But to her surprise the dwarf merely tutted. "Check again Hawke..."

She looked again at the cards in front of her. Her eyes widened. "The... Maker's breath you're joking!"

Hardly able to repress his laughter, Varric held up two fingers. "_Two_ items."

Isabela's grin almost split her face in two. "Varric, were you not already taken, I swear I would..."

The dwarf chuckled deeply. "I know Izzy, I know."

Placing her cards down on the table, Isabela leant forward expectantly. "Come on Hawke," she said, winking, "best give us a good show."

"I hate you," she replied, her cheeks almost hurting with their burning heat, "Each and every one."

Trying to ignore them, she turned her back on the table and began undoing buttons. This was _humiliating_, and she could half-hear herself muttering obscenities under her breath as she moved her fingertips along her waistband to ensure her smallclothes didn't decide to follow suit.

"Don't be a bad sport _sweet-cheeks_," she heard Varric say good-naturedly behind her, "_Merrill_ hasn't done anything wrong."

Anders wasn't going to look. There was absolutely no way he was...

It was bad enough that she was opposite him when she pulled that vest off. Those bindings didn't leave much to the imagination. He was resolved not to look. Positively. Absolutely determined not to...

"And aren't they _just_..." Isabela murmured huskily. "Ooh I've been waiting for that."

'All this blasted running about!' Ariadne cursed inwardly. Her breeches sticking slightly on her developing calf muscles. There was no way they were going to come off on their own. There were only two options: risk an awkward footgrab manoeuvre that would more than likely send her crashing to the ground, or just bite the bullet and pull.

'I had better make this quick.'

She bent forward.

'She is bending over,' Anders thought in a bling panic. '_Bending over_. Not just a little bit, like when she leans over Varric's chair or puts her elbows on the bar when she's been waiting too long, but full on touch-the-toes _bending_. Maker's breath... it's just as perfect as it looks through those breeches.'

'There,' Ariadne told herself at the trousers pooled at her feet, 'Step out of the blasted trousers and kick them into the pile. Try and stay calm as you return to your seat. Now, look up and smile...

'Andraste's flaming _tits_ what are they staring at?'

Isabela was the first to speak, though her mouth seemed to be a little dry. "I think I just found the figurehead for my next ship."

"Oh no," Varric muttered, taking a deep draught from his tankard. "This isn't just yours Isabela. This is something the _world_ needs to see."

"What are you talking about?" she asked, her voice little more than a peep.

"Your arse," the pirate murmured, her expression a little dreamy. "Those buttocks put Andraste to shame."

She buried her face in her hands. _This_ was the most embarrassing experience of her life.

* * *

><p>An hour or so later the clothes were back on, and the various party members were departing with their dignity more... or<em> less<em> intact. As usual, Anders was intending to take the passage to Darktown that started in the Slums, and so headed off with the Hawkes and Merrill. After a short distance, Carver headed off with Merrill towards the Alienage, muttering something about owing Varric a few silvers.

"You know," Ariadne muttered once they were on their own, her face a little bemused as she tentatively patted her backside, "I hope Isabela isn't going to make a habit of chucking coppers at my arse. I'm actually rather sore."

Trying desperately not to think, even for a second, about offering to heal her bruises (he just wasn't sure he'd be able to maintain the necessary restraint), he changed the subject quickly. Talking about idle things, he noticed after a while that she wasn't really paying attention. Smiling, he nudged her slightly.

"You're thinking something," he said, lips twitching in amusement at her musing face. "You can't hide from me you know, I'm magic."

She grinned, pushing back against him ever so slightly. "Is it that obvious?"

And here he was, despite every warning he had given himself, cocking his head and raising his eyebrows. "I can practically hear the cartwheels clattering."

She giggled, her nose wrinkling. "I was thinking about Isabela's plan to get that Sebastian fellow in on our games."

He frowned. "You mean the Chantry boy?"

She nodded. "Yes, him. I reckon she should be able to do it," she said thoughtfully, "but only if she reminds him that the _Maker_ didn't give us clothes."

He laughed at that, that warm throaty sound that made her chest tighten just a little, like his smiles. He shook his head slightly. "You're a strange woman."

"I'll take that as a compliment," she replied, digging an elbow into his ribs. "Coming from you."

It was strange for Ariadne to think how only a few weeks ago, the mere idea of acting like this with anyone would have seemed impossible. Now, with Varric and Isabela about it was all too easy. Not that this was the same. The truth was that nothing was really the same when it came to Anders.

"Most women wouldn't," he replied cheerfully. "_Especially_ when I've just seen them in their underwear."

"A good point," she admitted, teasing absent-mindedly at a strand of hair, "a;though it's one I could readily reciprocate. What a shame your _dazzling_ physique isn't matched by your skill at cards..." She winked at him, her eyes sparkkling with mischief.

He grinned playfully. "What can I say?" he said, shrugging nonchalantly. "When you look this good it seems a shame to hide it."

She giggled. "You can't even use drinking as an excuse."

"No," he said, watching for a moment as she stretched slightly, rolling her shoulders. "But I do still have a distraction."

"Oh really?" she asked, eyes flashing inquisitively. "Is it Merrill or Isabela?" Her forthrightness was surprising even herself. She paused momentarily, pretending to ponder. "I suppose it would be Izzy, but then you've already had sex with her, haven't you?"

He stopped dead in his tracks at that. "I meant Justice!" he exclaimed as she burst out laughing, turning back to face him. "Honestly woman, you have a filthy mind."

Still giggling, she wiped an eye with the back of her hand. "Like you'd _never_ believe."

"Well then," he said suggestively as he walked past her, "I'm surprised that _you_ haven't had sex with Isabela. Surely you've seen the way she looks at you?"

She paused, considering the idea for a moment. "I have noticed," she said honestly, "Isabela's just... too domineering. Always in a rush. That's all very well once in a while, but I'm looking for..."

"Something more meaningful?" he offered.

They had come to the bottom of the stairs leading up to Gamlen's door. She looked up at him, her face troubled but earnest. "Isabela may tease me," she said quietly, eyes settling on his as she swallowed nervously, "but I know what I want." She paused. "What happened with Athenril... with Benny, was a mistake. The last thing on my mind is some casual affair that you throw away as soon as the sunlight strays through the curtains. I want something more," she said, and his throat tightened painfully as he heard the quaver in her voice. "Maybe not forever, but something that matters now, the sort of thing that doesn't just disappear because you want it to," she paused, drawing a breath as her gaze flickered over his lips, "I think I deserve that."

His jaw clenched, and she could see the hesitation in his eyes, the struggle. "I'm certain that you do," he murmured, his voice low as he stood close.

But nothing happened. The moment stretched between them in a silence binding itself ever tighter in their chests. In the years to come she would curse herself for not taking this moment, for not just kissing the breath out of him before he had a chance to overthink things and put up his guard. If he'd moved even just an inch, given her the slightest indication, she would have taken it, and perhaps they would never have looked back. As it was, the moment lingered until she heard Carver's footsteps echo down the alley. She lowered her eyes.

"I'm cold Anders," she said quietly, barely able to hide her disappointment. "I should probably go in."

It was as if he had forgotten to breathe. "Of course," he said, stepping back from her as his cheeks coloured, "of course you should. Goodnight Ariadne."

She glanced back at him, already halfway up the steps. "Goodnight."

Moments later she was reopening the door for Carver, looking past him through the doorframe in the vain hope that he was still out there, only to find that he was gone. In the years to come she would always wonder what would have happened if she'd gone after him, if seeing her breathless in the door of his clinic might have been enough. In the years to come, she would curse herself for letting a moment's insecurity and nerves stop her from getting the one thing she wanted more than anything else. In the years to come she would always think of this night as the first time he _didn't_ kiss her.

* * *

><p>"You know," he said breathlessly, wrenching himself from the vision. "This is probably one of those moments you don't want to see."<p>

"Is it?" the guide asked, her voice a little squeaky. "I'm not sure what exactly I should do..."

He could feel the vision swirling, pulling him in again. "I don't know," he murmured, losing his focus. "I just... wanted to give you fair warning."

* * *

><p>The return trip to Darktown was mercifully dark and uneventful, and he was fumbling with his keys outside the clinic before he knew himself. His mind was in chaos, and his hands trembled as he closed the door behind him.<p>

He wandered around the cavernous space, fussing unnecessarily over the positioning of cots and basins. He draped his coat over a chair, before dragging the screens carefully over to the corner he called his own. Eventually, when any desperate hope of her appearing had dried up entirely, he bolted the door, and retreated to his makeshift room, where he washed briefly. Pulling his vest over his head, he sat down on the edge of his pallet with a deep and resounding groan.

He had nearly kissed her. Despite telling himself over and over that he shouldn't even be looking at her that way he had almost... What was this effect she kept having on him? How, when half the time she wasn't even really trying, did she manage to get under his _skin_ like that? He'd wanted to kiss her before, a dozen times at least, but he'd never come _this_ close.

'How is it possible to seem both so vulnerable and so utterly strong in one expression?'

Slowly, methodically, he moved to unlace his boots. Her words, her conviction, the unacknowledged understanding that what was growing between them was _exactly_ what she had said. It was, beyond any shadow of a doubt 'the sort of thing that doesn't just disappear because you want it to.'

'And as if that wasn't enough, the sight of her in the candlelight as she discarded her clothes. Sweet Andraste but she was...'

'_She was all you had hoped she'd be, and more. Surely now your curiosity is at an end.'_

He covered his face with his hands, falling backwards to lie on the pallet. True desire was _nothing_ like curiosity. It was flame that ignited itself deep within you, taking in every detail and sensation, never able to simply burn itself out. The thought knotted itself in his belly, and as the images began to shimmer into his mind, the fire roared within him.

He removed his trousers, casting them at the pile of clothes as he moved under the blankets, snuffing out the candle with a puff of magic. As he closed his eyes he saw again that look in her eyes as she told him what she wanted. That look in her eyes that willed him to acknowledge the unspoken _who_. He saw her opposite him at the table, that slight twist in her hips as she'd pulled her vest over her head. His glances, though stolen through blushes and deep draughts of his cider, revealed the perfect sweep of her belly, smooth skin uninterrupted by a single scar.

'_You have healed this flesh many times before.'_

'And yet I haven't tired of it.'

So many times he had reached this point alone the dark, his mind clouded with thoughts of her. No matter how much he had desired her he had always succeeded in biting it back, forcing himself into a fitful sleep. Why was this affecting him so? Why was his patience so utterly frayed? The sight of the swell beneath the bindings, of firm flesh despite the tightness of the fabric, of legs and back and everything in between as she turned away.

His arousal thrummed within him, and he groaned deeply. He rolled onto his side, facing the wall as he tried to push the images back. Despite himself, his mind traced the line of her breast band, saw the shiver creep across the swell of her flesh. A glance that had lasted but a moment in reality drew itself out in his mind.

'_We should rest.'_

'How can I?'

She was flooding his mind with her image, his imagination running wild as he recalled the softness in her waking face that first night when she had woken in his clinic. He wished that he had kissed her even then, kissed the sleep from her mouth, from those supple lips, so capable of expression.

'_There is no reason to dwell on such fantasies.'_

But it was something he could no longer avoid, could no longer push to one side as if it were not a part of him. His need was overwhelming, the only option was to find release. His hand released its grip on the blankets, strayed lower.

He remembered the moment when he had first felt her touch. He had been knocked unconscious fighting bandits on the Wounded Coast, and woken to find her bending over him, her hand cupping his cheek. How could skin that wielded a staff like that be so soft? How could her touch be so gentle?

He moaned slightly as his hand came into contact, past the point of embarrassment as it echoed around the empty clinic. He focused on the image of her bending over him, the smile as she realised he was unharmed, her hair straying from its hurried knot, cascading forwards to caress her face.

'_End this.'_

He intended to.

'_Desist.'_

And suddenly the touch was too firm, the motion too rough as he struggled against himself. He needed this.

'_It is unnecessary. She is a distraction.'_

But Justice was wrong. She was everything, the living embodiment of everything they fought for. A free mage, a woman full of life and love and laughter, who had never known Circle walls. She was the aspiration, her freedom was the struggle. His grip slackened.

His tongue parted his lips, wetting them as his breath gathered pace, as his body found its rhythm. He saw again the flush on her cheeks in the inn and the slight shallowness in her breathing - a nervousness that might have bordered on arousal. He remembered the way she had distracted herself, trying to stay calm, taking a sip of her drink. He saw that perfect mole on the base of her throat shift as she swallowed, saw the way she would stretch after finishing a battle, releasing the tension in her shoulders as she rolled them back.

His pace increased as he recalled the way she would fist her hands into her hair when she was anxious, the silken strands so willing to escape their bonds. Her eyes as they danced with laughter, darkened with tenderness, sparkled with a smile. That blue he felt that he could drown in, as fresh as the sea or as stormy as the night. He brought himself back to that moment, that moment when he could have moved to her, drowning her in his kiss, his need, his desire. She would have melted to him, her ripe lips dancing against his own as she succumbed. They'd tumble into the candlelight, clothing discarded carelessly, her skin unveiled as she leant over him, touching his cheek as she... as she...

With a final, guttural moan he spent himself into his palm, as his whole body seemed to ache with release. Rising carefully, he crossed his makeshift room to the washstand, and rinsed himself off in the cold water. Shivering, he returned to the warmth of his cot, trying his best to get comfortable.

'_May that be an end to it.'_

As if that were even possible.

The images were simple, but in the years and months that followed they would evolve steadily, utter fantasy mixing with those moments of the reality that captivated him. It was this night that he would remember however, as the first when he had given himself over to his attraction to her, when he had lost the resolve to deny what he was beginning to feel to himself and given in to the fleeting consolation of his own touch.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Please let me know what you think! Click the review button!<br>**_


	5. Tactics

**_Author's Note:_**_ For those of you lovely folks who didn't get the chance to see it before - here's a link to the amazing Art 'The Benefits of Losing' by Yamisnuffles on Deviantart_

http:/ mandamcmoo. /favourites /#/d3eaz7j (Just remove the spaces)

It's a brilliant picture of Anders during the Strip Diamondback scene in Chapter 4.

I've also spent a bit of time getting to know how this crazy site works, and hopefully the spruced up chapters are an improvement.

Next job is learning how to post fiction on Deviantart...

Thank you for the fantastic reviews I've received so far from: vegeta's chew-toy, Raven Jadewolfe, KSCrusaders, Carlydria and The Magical Lliopleurodan. Extra thanks to everyone has favourited or added my story to their notifications, and MASSIVE thanks to my extraordinary new BETA MaryJade!

Anyway, I disclaim ownership of any characters etc.

Onwards!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5: Tactics<strong>

Two days after the 'kiss that never was', Ariadne got herself into a situation that she couldn't really handle. Despite Carver's protests, and even Aveline's concerns that it was a trap, she followed up a letter she'd received and headed out towards the Wounded Coast. She'd brought Anders along, which as Aveline reminded her was proof enough that even _she_ wasn't one hundred percent certain about what they were doing. Obviously Aveline didn't _know_ about the 'not kissing' thing, it wasn't the sort of thing they talked about. At least half of her had simply asked him along in the hopes that they might have a chance to talk, or even find themselves in a similar situation, so that she could stop thinking about it over and over and just _act_. Of course, circumstances intervened on that count. It was a nasty habit they had, those circumstances.

They'd found the templar Thrask waiting for them, who they'd met when they'd sent that boy Feynriel to live among the Dalish. On hearing the situation, she'd obviously moved to resolve the situation as peacefully as she could, and having met the mages, agreed to pretend that they had all been killed. The complication had come in the form of Ser Kerras. Unable to convince him that the mages were not in the caverns, the fight that had broken out had been brutal, even with Thrask on their side. She and Anders had succeeded in keeping the line on their end, and she couldn't help but feel happy at the battle's end. That is, until she head realised what happened to Carver.

"Hawke!" Aveline's voice carried a note of fear that sent a chill to her bones, "Hawke! Anders! Come quickly!"

Running back past the entrance to the cavern they found the guardswoman bending over Carver while Ser Thrask looked on in fear.

"I tried to stop him," the templar said fearfully, "I cut his head clean off but I wasn't fast enough."

"Carver?" she pushed past the Templar brusquely, kneeling at her brother's side and taking his hands. He was breathing, alert even, his teeth gritted as he groaned in pain. It took a moment for her to register the sword jutting out of his thigh.

"It's gone clean through," Aveline muttered to Anders as he knelt beside them, "There'll be severed arteries in there for certain."

"Carver?" the healer called, leaning forward to make eye contact with the boy, "Can you hear me? Carver?"

"Yes!" her brother snarled, gripping her hand like a vice, "Yes I can hear you, you stupid mage. Get this damn sword out of my leg!"

"I can't do it that easily," Anders said calmly, "If I just pull it out you'll bleed to death before I can heal you."

_That_ got her attention. "But you can heal him?" she asked, her voice flooded with panic as she looked back at him.

"I _can_," he replied, amber eyes meeting reassuringly with her own, "but it isn't going to be easy."

It _wasn't_ easy. The process of removing the sword took over an hour and used up every lyrium potion they had. The wait was agonizing, with Ariadne left in charge of keeping Carver as still and calm as possible while Anders and Aveline worked on drawing out the sword. Thrask and the apostates were all long gone by the time Carver was back on his feet, supported by Aveline and Ariadne.

"Good thing we'll have you with us in the Deep Roads," he said, glancing awkwardly at the blond mage.

"Why Carver," Anders replied, a mischievous smile in his worn face, "that was _almost_ nice of you."

"Don't expect it too often," he replied wearily, "It's not often that you'll save my sister from a lifetime of mother's disappointment."

And there it was, with her pale-faced brother slung over her shoulders, and the man who had saved his life beside her, the moment when two things dawned on her. The first was that she was falling in love with the healer, and the second that she was going to have to break her brother's heart.

* * *

><p>One evening, after healing Carver from a particularly nasty leg-wound, Anders found himself in a particularly strange position. Not only was the boy not glaring at him, he was actually being polite. Despite the fact that he'd gained said wound fighting off Templars on their behalf.<p>

Of course, he'd been a fool to hope that it would last. As soon as Varric had cornered Hawke at the bar to discuss business matters, Carver turned to him with significant look.

Drinking up the dregs of his drink, Anders put his tankard down on the table with a sigh. "I assume," he said resignedly, "that you have something to say."

Carver looked at him warily, seeming almost nervous as he broached the topic. "I noticed something the other day," he said finally.

Leaning forward in mock concern, Anders looked at the boy thoroughly. "Is this unusual, are you concerned that you have some sort of illness?"

The boy rolled his eyes. "I noticed the way that you were talking to my sister."

He slumped back in his chair. "Oh great," he replied, "Is this the part where you start outlandish and unnecessary threats?"

Familiar blue eyes flashed with irritation. "Just listen will you?" he said hastily, cheeks colouring ever so slightly, "Ariadne doesn't open around people. Not me, not mother. No-one since Bethany," he paused, looking up in earnest, "We may not always be the best of friends, but I know my sister. Whatever she might say to the contrary, she needs someone in her life who understands her."

This wasn't what he'd expected. "And you think I do?" he asked, unable to hide his surprise.

The boy snorted. "I _know_ that you do," he said firmly, leaning forward, "I can see it the way you look at her when she's talking to you. I can see it in the way she moves around you. She doesn't put up her walls. She doesn't guard herself."

It was difficult to believe that someone who seemed so thick-headed could so plainly state what he himself had only wondered. "That may not be the best thing," Anders said quietly, toying with his tankard.

"You may tell yourself that this isn't something that you want," Carver replied, his eyes steadily looking into Anders' own, "That the idea of someone trusting you is more than you can handle. I understand that, but sometimes life doesn't give you a choice. She needs someone, and that someone appears to be you," he got to his feet, seeing his sister waving to him from the bar, "Be honoured."

There seemed no evading the point. "I am," he said, the words like lead on his tongue.

"Good," the boy said, pushing back his chair, "And Anders?"

He looked up at her brother, saw the smirk twist those familiar lips.

"Don't hurt her. Or I will kill you."

All things considered, it was the nicest thing the man ever said to him.

* * *

><p>The last weeks before the expedition passed more or less a blur. He tried to push the thoughts to one side, focusing his efforts on his patients. As always he was combating the rash of births that came in midsummer, the happy by-products of the long winter nights. The truth remained, however, that she was itching at his every sense.<p>

He knew that she intended to take him with her into the Deep Roads, and he more than intended to go. If nothing else, being out of the city would be useful, even if it did meaning returning to the Blight's stench. Still, it had been a week or so since he'd seen her, and he was beginning to wonder when or if he was going to hear from her when she showed up.

He wasn't prepared for how tired she would look, as if she hadn't really stopped working since he'd seen her last. She was thinner too, and had a kind of nervous energy about her, a sense that she was distracted. Rather than wait for him to greet her, she approached him directly at his desk at the back of the clinic, where he was attempting to sort some papers. He wanted to have a quiet conversation, to get her to sit and talk so that he could work up the courage to talk to her about what had happened the last time they'd played cards but, unusually, she got the point of her visit without any preamble.

"I wanted to double check that you were still alright to come to the Deep Roads with us," she said, the cadence of her voice all wrong, "I know it's not your favourite place."

"Oh," he said, struck by the formality, the abruptness of her tone, "I'm still onboard, absolutely. I could do with getting out of the city."

The slightly glassy look in her eyes wavered momentarily as she sighed. "I know," she said quietly, her eyes showing her troubled mind, "I almost think this trip can't come soon enough."

He frowned, stepping towards her slightly. "You think they're on to you?"

She shrugged listlessly, and he could tell by the way she moved her head that it was aching. He moved instinctively to soothe it, blue light emanating from his palm as he placed to it his forehead. She bristled momentarily, and then relaxed. "Mother heard some neighbours asking Gamlen about us," she said softly, her eyes closing as the ache softened into nothingness, "He hasn't mentioned anything but then he's not exactly proved the most trustworthy fellow. He's been complaining for months that I'm cluttering up the place. He'd probably be quite pleased to be rid of me."

He pulled back, seeing the effects in her face as much as he could hear them in her words. She looked brighter eyed, and some colour had returned to her cheeks. "I'm sure your Uncle wouldn't..." he paused, considering what he was about to say, "Well... maybe he would."

She sighed slightly as he pushed her back to sit up on his examination bench, but she didn't resist. As he turned to pour her a potion she reached up and undid the tie on her hair, running her fingers over her scalp.

He handed her the drink, smiling as she teased an auburn strand out before her nose. "You should wear your hair down more often. It really is lovely," he said quietly. An understatement of the first order.

She smiled a worn smile. "It just..." she said, pausing to drink the concoction he had given her, and he tried to ignore the soft expanse of her neck before him, "has this habit of trying to get into my face all the time. It's sort of maddening," she sighed, "Bethany always had perfect hair, those soft black curls... they never seemed to annoy her, they were just... perfect."

He reached up, tucking a strand back behind her ear before taking the cup. He'd been developing more than a minor obsession with her hair for some time now. The way it always seemed so desperate to escape its bonds, to expose itself in all its soft, shimmering glory inevitably lead his mind to think of other things: how it might look fanned out across a pillow; how perfectly it contrasted with the pale skin of her neck; how it would feel trailing across his chest, the inside of his arms, his groin. It wasn't long, just shy of shoulder length, and wavy, but it was the strands themselves that captivated him. Each one so light and silken that it moved individually, defying the cling of any other. In the light from his brazier the colour almost sang.

"There," he said, trying to ignore the gruff tone in his voice, and the ache twisting in the pit of his stomach, "Much better."

She smiled at that, a pretty expression despite the circles under her eyes. "Anyway," she said cheerily, the tension unknotting from her shoulders, as she hopped off the bench, "it's good to be getting out of here. I'll see you at the Man tomorrow night?"

He frowned. "You're not staying?" he asked, seeing from her body language that she wasn't, "I was hoping we might have a chance to talk."

"I know," she sighed, a genuine sadness in her eyes, "I'm sorry I've been neglecting you. It's just there's so much to do, and I seem to have no time at all."

She'd had the money for the expedition for weeks now, what more could there be to arrange? He wanted to press her, to find out what could be running her ragged like this, but she was itching to be gone. "I understand," he lied.

Relief washed over her expression. "I'll be at the Man tomorrow," she said, with a half-smile, "Hopefully for most of the early evening. I'll talk to you then?"

"Of course," he said, smiling despite the fact that that would not be the kind of talk he had in mind, "Take care of yourself."

"Sure," she said, with a smile that did not reach her eyes. She turned briskly and headed for the door.

"Ariadne?" he called.

She looked back over tensed shoulders. "Hmm?"

"Try and get some proper sleep tonight," he said warmly, trying to convey his concern in a look, "and drink plenty of water."

She nodded, appreciating the concern. "You're the doctor," she said warmly as she turned to leave.

* * *

><p>With the clinic packed up, and his nerves more than a little jittery at the thought of returning to the Deep Roads, for once in his life Anders was at the Hanged Man before nigh on anyone else. Varric was on the point of ordering some dinner, and he accepted the invitation to join him readily, Darktown cuisine being even less than it was cracked up to be. They were joined shortly afterwards by Merrill, who was pleasant enough to talk to if you steered clear of certain difficult topics, which their host ensured that they did. As they were finishing their meals, Carver stalked in after Aveline, doubtless hounding her again after a place in the guard when he returned.<p>

The conversation moved easily enough, with Varric pressing him for details on his experience as a warden. It felt easy talking like this to the dwarf, and Merrill made an appreciative enough audience to be sure. Varric always knew just the right questions to ask, as if he could sniff out a story before you'd even begun telling it. He'd just gotten to the part where the Queen stepped in on his behalf when the door to the inn opened once more, and Isabela walked backwards into the inn, followed by Hawke. Conversation came to an abrupt halt.

"Please Hawke," the pirate captain pleaded, deliberately putting herself in the other woman's path.

Ariadne rolled her eyes, stopping to put her hands on the buxom woman's shoulders. "No Isabela," she said firmly, gently pushing her to one side, "I'm not going to change my mind."

The dark eyed Rivaini growled in frustration. "You could die in the Deep Roads!" she exclaimed, following Hawke to the bar, "Doesn't that mean something to you? Don't die with regrets!"

"I have many regrets in my life, Isabela," she replied, leaning up against the bar in _just _that way, "None of them is not sleeping with you."

"Not even just a little bit?" the older woman asked, slipping her arm around the mage's waist, "Please?" she purred, pouting, "This whole thing is _completely_ unfair."

Hawke turned her head, locking eyes with the rogue. "No."

All pretence of dignity failed. "Can I just _see_ it then?" Isabela begged, as Ariadne pulled back from her.

"You already saw it!" she exclaimed, stepping out of her grasp.

The pirate followed. "It hardly counted!"

The young mage threw her hands in the air in desperation. "It counted enough that you won't stop _bothering_ me about it," she said irritably, turning to head up the stairs, "I'm going to the washroom Isabela. Don't follow me."

With a groan of desperation, Isabela threw herself down in a chair between Anders and Merrill, her head on her arms.

"What's got you so worked up?" Varric asked teasingly, "You're not normally this persistent with her."

The Rivaini didn't even look up. "I saw it," she said, sighing deeply, "I _saw_ it."

The dwarf's eyes widened in disbelief. "You saw it?" he asked, leaning forward, "How?"

"I did," she replied, her voice muffled by her hair and arms, "and now I'll probably never sleep again."

Curiosity got the better of him. "What are you talking about?" he asked, eyebrow raised.

Varric regarded him curiously. "Blondie," he said thoughtfully, "have you ever noticed how Hawke does this... _thing_ with her tongue?"

He frowned. "What thing?"

Merrill looked surprised. "You mean you've never seen her reading?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I mean, I know she likes books,"

"That's an understatement," the dwarf growled, "My shelves are practically groaning with them. Why am I such a sucker for those baby blues?"

Anders smiled. "But I mean, when does she even have _time_ to read them?"

"Rest days." Varric replied matter-of-factly, "She says having Gamlen glare at her makes her nervous, so she comes and sits in my room."

The young elf beamed. "Sometimes we do puzzles," she said brightly.

The dwarf patted her on the arm. "That's right Daisy," he said, before turning to Anders in earnest, "Anyway, you know how some people lick their finger to turn the page?"

He couldn't help but be intrigued by the question. "Mmm?"

"Well," Varric replied, as Isabela sat up slowly, "so does Hawke."

The Rivaini's cheeks were flushed with colour, her eyes slightly dreamy as she murmured, "Only... only..."

Merrill leant forward across the dark-eyed beauty. "Only Hawke's way of licking her finger makes Isabela go all funny," she said conspiratorially, "Apparently it's something dirty."

"It _is_ dirty," Isabela groaned, as Anders felt his own cheeks darken, "Especially because she seems to have no idea she's doing it."

Varric gave a throaty chuckle. "And she wonders why Gamlen stares!"

Now that he thought about it, he _had_ seen her reading. Once or twice when he'd come for Diamondback he'd found them still lazing around the dwarf's quarters: Isabela lolling on the bed cracking jokes at Carver, Merrill poring over strange games and puzzles with Varric. Invariably Ariadne would be curled up in one of the dwarf's massive carved chairs, one leg dangling carelessly over an armrest while she scanned the pages of some tome or another, lips at her fingertips. Of course, his arrival on the proceedings inevitably ended them, signalling as they did the end of the afternoon's relaxation and the beginning of the night's entertainment. Puzzles and books were put aside, chairs dragged back to their rightful places to allow the real fun to begin. Perhaps if he just left the clinic a bit earlier...

"So what happened today?" Merrill asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Isabela drew a deep breath, steadying herself. "We were at the Market," she said leaning forward slightly, "trading off all the bits and pieces she's picked up, you know. I told her I was hungry, and she offered to by us some snacks. There was this vendor, Micah, selling these little flatbreads with grilled meat."

"Oh!" Merrill exclaimed happily, "I like him, his stuff's good. He does that sauce."

The pirate glanced sharply at her elven companion. "He does, and it would seem that Hawke's rather partial to it too," she said, her lips twitching with a suppressed smiled, "There was too much, some of it trickled down into her hand, and that's when... She just..." she paused, her expressions lightly misty, "It just darted out from between her lips and swiped up the trail," she said, clearly relishing the image, "I've never seen anything like it."

The young elf frowned. "You've never seen a tongue?"

Isabela rolled her eyes. "Not such a long, strong, _dextrous_ tongue," she said, lingering over every word with a barely disguised tremor, "No."

Hoping against hope that no-one would notice the colour staining his cheeks, Anders downed half of his pint to steady his nerves.

"So let me guess," the dwarf interjected, smirking broadly, "you followed her back here telling her all the things she _possibly _could do with it."

"Oh no," the Rivaini replied, pitching a deep and disappointed sigh, "that's just the worst of it. I didn't need to tell her... she _knows_."

Varric frowned. "What exactly do you mean?"

Isabela leant forward, taking Varric's tankard and taking a long draught. "I was at the Rose last night," she said matter-of-factly, peering half-disgustedly into the drink, "Usual story, except for one little detail. There I was, all set to give that minx of a boy Jethann the ride of his life when in bursts Athenril."

Now Anders' interest really was piqued. "The smuggler?" he asked, leaning forward with no thought to the attention he would undoubtedly draw, "You mean the one that..."

The Rivaini nodded at him, a smirk tweaking the very corner of her mouth. "She'd heard from someone downstairs that I knew Hawke," she said, swilling back the rest of Varric's brew. Grumbling, the dwarf waved for another round. "She was in a total state, all drunk and weepy, calling me all sorts of names," she mused, drawing absent-minded circles around the rim of the empty tankard, "Somehow she'd gotten it into her head that Hawke and I were a couple, and that I was being unfaithful."

Varric sighed audibly, covering his eyes with a hand. "Maker's ass Isabela," he muttered, "You spend half your time down there talking about the girl, no wonder people are getting ideas."

"But I don't understand," Anders interrupted, hardly listening to the dwarf as he pressed the pirate further, "Hawke cheated on Athenril, didn't she? Why would the woman even care?"

Isabela's smirk deepened. "Well," she purred, teasing her fingers on the grain of the table as the barmaid replaced their drinks, "it was all a bit sad really. She couldn't understand why I'd want a man when I could have someone like Hawke. Why'd I'd want someone's cock thrusting into me when I could have her doing..."

Varric interrupted her with a hand on the arm. "I think it's better if you leave out the details, Rivaini," he said, leaning across to push closed the mouth that Anders didn't even realise had fallen open, "I think Blondie here might have a nosebleed."

"Well," Isabela chuckled, sipping her drink, "I can reassure you that she has a wide array of talents. Very wide..."

"Rivaini..." the dwarf growled as Anders took a very, very deep drink indeed.

She sighed irritably. "Anyway, Athenril was convinced that Hawke only cheated on her because she wasn't good enough in bed," she said, gesturing vaguely with her tankard, "that she could never match up to such a..." she paused, eyes sparking wickedly, "What were the words? Oh I remember: 'goddess of sexual congress'."

Now it was Varric's turn to gape. "You're shitting me?"

"I'm not," Isabela said, her expression utterly in earnest, "She cried on me Varric. For two hours."

"I can imagine that put a bit of a dampener on things with you and Jethann," Merrill piped up suddenly, making Anders start half out of his seat.

"Oh no," the pirate replied, downing her spirit deftly, "I brought her in on the act. Under the circumstances it seemed the only polite thing to do."

Varric chuckled warmly. "You certainly have a strange idea of what it means to be polite, Isabela."

"She was wrong of course," she continued, gesturing to the barmaid, "she's actually very good."

The heat was rising in Anders cheeks, and his voice was decidedly choked when he finally said, in a voice more squeaky than he'd expected, "Well. You learn something new every day."

Varric's chuckles deepened into booming laughter as Isabela fell forward onto her arms once more. "Why..." she groaned miserably, "Why won't she have sex with me?"

With no sign of Hawke reappearing, Anders went to settle for his drinks before Varric could stop him. He found Carver talking to some of the regulars, boasting about how he was going to the Deep Roads to 'make gold and kill darkspawn'.

"You know," he said, interrupting the boy in full flow, "It's not half as glamorous as you're making out."

Of course, Carver wasn't going to give any ground to a comment like that, rebuffing it with some swipe at 'delicate' mages. Before he could reply however, his mood for baiting Carver was dissipated by the sight of Ariadne returning to the bar, her face thunderous. Behind her, her arm at the girl's elbow, steering her to a table in the corner, Aveline was in full lecturing mode.

"Hawke," she said, her voice stern, "I know you think you have it all under control, but you have to understand that what you do has consequences for people beyond yourself."

Blue eyes flared with annoyance as Ariadne was half-pushed into the chair behind him. From where he stood at the bar he could just see them without turning his head. "You think that I don't know that?" she asked, incredulously, "Do you really believe that I don't understand the consequences of my actions?" She frowned at Aveline, leaning towards her friend over the table, "Do you think I don't feel the weight of that responsibility?"

The guardswoman's face remained unyielding, her words firm. "Your mother has lost enough."

"She is not the only one!" the girl exclaimed heatedly, "You think I really look on this as some sort of game? That I relish fighting more darkspawn after that..." she paused, her eyes welling up with hurt and anger, "After _Bethany_? Aveline I have no choice," she said forcefully, smacking her palm against the table, "I am doing this for them."

"I know that," the redheaded warrior replied calmly, her expression dark with harsh tenderness, "I'm just asking you to think about the choices that you _can_ make."

For a moment, a single split second, he thought that the guardswoman's glance was directed at him. Blanching, he looked away, and in doing so inadvertently spotted the real object of her gaze. There, stood just behind him to their line of sight, Carver continued to laugh and brag with his friends.

Behind him a chair screeched backwards. Turning he saw Ariadne, looking down at her friend with shining eyes. "You know Aveline," she said fiercely, pushing her chair back under the table, "sometimes it feels like you know everything about what I do, but nothing about _me_."

Without another word she was moving, brushing past him as she crossed the room to the table where Varric and Merrill still sat with the mournful pirate captain. The uprightness of her posture, the forcefulness of her resolve were things he'd never seen before, and proof, as if he needed it, of how shaken she was.

"Isabela?" she said, looking down on the dark-eyed woman with a mischievous look, "A peace-offering."

The Rivaini beauty roused herself to look up into the younger woman's face. Ariadne smiled. "If I make it back in one piece," she said, her lips twisting wickedly, "With no disasters, then I will kiss you." She bent forward slightly, drawing her face level with Isabela's own as she said, her voice laden with promise, "_With_ the tongue."

For the merest moment, he thought he saw a flicker of pink between Hawke's lips. As she turned and walked towards the tavern door, the effect that she had had on the pirate captain was clear. Was that... Was that even possible? Was Isabela... _blushing_?

"I..." the pirate captain muttered, getting to her feet, "I'll be in my hammock."

Turning back to look across the room from her place in the doorway, Hawke smiled to see Isabela disappearing up the stairs. "And with that," she said cheerfully, "I think I'll be off to spend some time with my Mother. Carver? Don't stay up too late. Varric, Anders? I'll see you in the morning."

And without so much as a 'by your leave' she left. He left himself a minute or so later, claiming that he needed to finish packing and rest for the journey, expecting to catch up with her on the way back. He was surprised not to find her on the usual route, and was almost tempted to knock on Gamlen's door when he found himself alone outside it. He'd been hoping for a chance to speak with her before the expedition, to clear the air between them and avoid any potential misunderstandings. The chance of him finding such a moment when they were surrounded by hirelings and a brooding elf and an overly-humanized crossbow... well it seemed slim, to say the least.

In the end, he decided that he'd just have to make a moment. In all honesty, if she were in that fiery a mood it was probably for the best if her left her to herself.

* * *

><p>The day of the expedition dawned dim and cloudy, just the sort of promising start she'd been expecting. She woke early to the sound of knocking at her door. Rising carefully, she greeted the messenger without waking the rest of her family. The note he passed her was small, and sealed with Keep's sigils. Passing him a coin for his troubles and closing the door behind her she broke the wax with a swipe of thumb. Taking a shawl from the back of a chair she sat down by the fire and, setting the fire with a gesture, began to read.<p>

_Dear Hawke,_

_I deserved that._

_I cannot come to Hightown today, but I do not wish to part from you on bad terms. Your friendship has meant a great deal to me, and I apologise if mine has been in any way insufficient. _

_Please forgive me,_

_- Aveline_

She smiled. Who else but the flame-haired guardswoman could declare her deepest feelings in such a remarkably awkward and formal way? Wrapping the shawl tightly around her shoulders, she went over to the writing desk and drafted her reply.

_Dearest Aveline,_

_There is nothing to forgive. Please keep an eye on Mother and Carver while I am gone._

_-Ariadne Hawke_

Having no seal, she used a frost spell to seal the wax with a star-like pattern. It was a small detail, but one that would likely have drawn too much attention had she not already been on the verge of leaving the city. Finding her pack by the door, she tucked the note into the front pocket, ready to be given to a messenger in Hightown on the way.

* * *

><p>He was surprised not to find Ariadne in the Merchant's Guild before him, but he didn't exactly have to wait long to find out why. Arriving from the steps by the Blooming Rose, the stone walls were ringing with the sound of argument down in the Marketplace. Seeing Varric talking to the other dwarves, he followed the sounds of the disturbance.<p>

From the top of the steps he could see the Hawke family gathered. With the market closed for midweek, the voices echoed loudly in the empty space. Carver was pacing furiously, and it was clear that he was doing most of the shouting.

"Carver," she said, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder, her voice soothing.

"No Ariadne," he retorted, shrugging her off with an angry glare, "I'm not going to listen. You won't talk me out of this."

She shrugged in defeat, withdrawing to her last point of defence. "No," she said with a sigh, "I won't. I just won't be bringing you."

She saw the betrayal hit home, saw his eyes flare with rage and pain. "You can't!" he cried out, not without a tinge of hurt that bit into her chest.

She looked away from him, her jaw set firmly even as her eyes began to sting. "Mother's right," she said quietly, her voice strained, "We can't both go into the Deep Roads, and we both know that I can't stay here."

She felt him draw close, saw his eyes beseeching as he looked into her face. "Sister..."

Blinking the tears back from her eyes she straightened, looking at him with her eyes full of ice though her voice belied her. "I have no choice Carver," she said coldly, her stare unseeing, unwilling to see his hurt, "I won't threaten her with this. It's too much."

From the top of the steps, Anders could see the anger building in the younger man, his voice rising again. "This is why you weren't there when I got home last night, isn't it?" he spat, pointing his finger accusingly, "I'd thought that you and that mage..." the healer coloured slightly at the suggestion, "but you were seeing _him_? You've been planning this all along, haven't you? Why else would you accept the help of that bastard elf?"

Fenris? She was going to bring Fenris along instead? _That_ was why she hadn't been on the route they always took, she'd gone off to Hightown to check that the elf was still on board. Aveline really had been wrong. She'd planned the whole thing.

Seeing the force of his anger her resolve crumbled. The last thing she wanted was for them to part like this. "Carver," she said, her voice cracking as she stepped towards him, "I swear..."

But he wasn't ready to listen to her excuses. "Tell it to someone who cares, sister," he said venomously, "I'll know how to act."

Still reeling, Anders watched as Carver turned his back on Ariadne, striding off towards the steps down to Lowtown. The girl stood crestfallen, hands shaking slightly as the third part, a woman who must surely be their mother, approached. "Thank you darling," she said softly, "I can't tell you what this means..."

"Goodbye Mother," she said abruptly, interrupting, "I'll try not to get myself killed."

With that, and a cool kiss on either cheek she turned in the direction of the Merchant's Guild. It was cold of her to leave her Mother like that, and she knew it, but she could act no other way. She trusted Carver, despite their fallings out and their bickering, she trusted him with her life. Even though she'd known for weeks that this moment would eventually come, to live through the reality had been every bit as awful as she had expected. The last thing she could possibly need was to listen to her mother tell her how glad she was that she had betrayed his trust. All that fear in her voice mother's voice, that worry that had eaten away at her insides like poison, forcing her into this path. She resented it, much as she had Aveline the night before, for expecting something different of her, for making this harder than it already was by nature. She wanted to scream at them both, to tell everyone just to stop expecting her to do the wrong thing. It had been four years, four years since her father had died. Four years bearing his burdens, carrying the family through every peak and trough and mindless horror, and _still _non-one believed her capable.

She had forgiven Aveline, who didn't know her, who couldn't understand how deep the insult went, the true weight she struggled under to keep them afloat. In the weeks to come she would punish herself mercilessly for it, worrying without end if she had finally done the unforgiveable, but she couldn't forgive her mother right now. She had never chosen this, to be the head of the household, to take father's place as the mediator between the family and the world. The truth was that she resented the task, resented being the one who had to disappoint her brother, and deeper down still that so much of the concern was centred on him. At twenty-one years old, she was too young to forgive.

She saw Anders at the top of the steps, his face a picture of concern and guilt. She glanced at him as she passed, muttering darkly, "Why do I get the feeling that I'm going to regret that?"

* * *

><p>Silence stung in the air, a poison drawn in with every ragged breath. "Carver?" she whispered, her eyes tightly shut.<p>

Even though she was leant against him, tucked in against his chest like a fragile animal, part of her felt insubstantial. As if he were a dream that would disappear if she opened her eyes.

"I forgive you," he murmured, his voice shaking with emotion, bringing her to her senses, "I forgave you a long time ago."

"Thank you."


	6. In at the Deep End

_**Author's Note: **Sorry for the slight delay on this fella - being home for Easter is busy, busy, busy! _

_Just want to send some love out to the lovely folks who have been favouriting me and to the wonderful MaryJade, my beloved Beta for all her help._

_Disclaimer: My tears belong to David Gaider and Jennifer Hepler.  
><em>

**Chapter 6: In at the Deep End**

She stirred the pot carefully, watching the leaves stain the water as their scent rose into the air. A simple remedy of her father's, the tea would allow her to lower the aura killing Carver's pain. Without this further drain on her mana, she would be able to give him more healing sooner. While she waited for the tea to brew, she went to the bed nestled on the ledge to check on her other patient, a cup of water in hand.

He looked like any other sleeper as she sat beside him, resting the cup on a rocky shelf above his head. His face was peaceful in repose, more so than she'd seen in many years. At thirty-five, he was still young, but the crow's feet at his eyes and the hints of grey hair at the temples gave away the true extent of his strain. The years had not been kind to him, but then, he hadn't exactly been all that kind to himself. Or anyone else, for that matter.

She watched his chest rising, counting the speed of his breaths. Nothing untoward there, the spell must be working. She noted the slight twitch of his eyelids. He _was_ dreaming then. Good.

Being this close to him, it was as if she could feel the tendrils of magic straining between them, the constant drain on her mana that was keeping him in this state, much more so than with Carver. It was a strange feeling, tingling and intimate, but also deeply unsettling. No matter what she was hoping for the outcome, she knew she never wanted to cast a spell that she couldn't end willingly again.

Gingerly, she raised his head, placing the cup to his lips. She'd never had his bedside manner, his ability to care for others, for strangers, with the tenderness and patience of a parent. Some of the water trickled out of the side of his mouth, and she wondered if he'd feel the cold on his neck in the Fade. She wished she'd had more time to study the journey that she had sent him on before she'd cast the spell. He took the water easily, his mouth moving slowly as she poured, his head heavy in the crook of her arm. He looked more innocent than was fair, and her chest tightened with grief.

The water gone, she lay his head back down as gently as she could, and despite the conflict raging in her heart, pressed her knuckles to his cheek.

At once images, unbidden and unfamiliar, flashed into her mind. Anders on horseback, watching the shifting expressions on her face as she rode slightly ahead of him. Their first night in the Deep Roads, when she'd woken convinced that the ceiling would fall in on them, and she thought he'd been asleep. Her washing in a side passage, an accidental glimpse that lingered, water washing over her bare back as she knelt over a basin, steam rising from the trails of soapy bubbles running over her curves and down...

She jolted back her hand, her heart thudding angrily in her chest, her breathing harsh and forced.

What was that? How had she... Those were his memories. Surely that wasn't...

He'd watched her. The daft bastard had watched her when he was supposed to be guarding...

Not that that was really a surprise. He'd always loved watching her bathe.

Was this what she'd done to him, put him to sleep so he could relive every stolen glance?

Withdrawing with a sigh, she returned to the tea and her brother, the need to recount intensifying with every passing second.

* * *

><p>"Did you feel that?" he asked, wrenching himself from the vision with a gasp.<p>

"What?" the guide asked, frowning.

"Just then," he said shaking himself slightly, "Everything felt clearer, brighter somehow."

Her frown deepened. "What do you mean?" she asked, moving to kneel by him where he lay.

"As if," he murmured, eyes wide and his vision hazy as the apparitions clawed him back, "As if everything came into focus."

* * *

><p>It had been a little over ten days that they'd been travelling: a week to get down to the first real ruins and now three days trying to find their way in to the Thaig. It was all very civilised: camp beds and water and properly prepared food, far better than anything he'd ever managed with the Wardens, but the truth was that being underground was just as maddening as ever. While Fenris and Varric seemed at least passably content with the situation, he could tell that Hawke found it just as unsettling as he did.<p>

She'd been avoiding him for days now, finding excuses and just generally hovering outside of the range of conversation. Of course, they'd never really had an opportunity to talk about the kiss that never happened, but it surprised him to think that she'd still be holding it against him after this long. He needed to talk to her, to clear the air between them.

That morning they were clearing out darkspawn from a large chamber, further into the tunnels than they had yet dared to venture. Anders was convinced that they must be nearing the end of their task, that soon enough they'd find their way through to the Thaig. They cleared the chamber briskly enough, and with Varric and Fenris scouring the perimeters for loot and hidden darkspawn, Anders saw his chance.

He approached her leaning up against the bottom of a large staircase that seemed to be the only way forward, the other door being utterly immovable. She was cleaning the blade on the end of her staff, and barely seemed to register his presence.

"Listen Ariadne," he said, clearing his throat quietly, "I've been trying to get a moment to talk to you."

"You know what?" she said suddenly, looking up at him, "This whole playdate with the darkspawn isn't as fun as I thought it would be. Maybe Carver should have come instead."

"You're still worrying about Carver?" he asked, frowning.

That darkness he had seen these last few days crept into her face again. Had he been wrong this whole time? "I just can't get over that look in his eyes," she said, scuffing the toe of her boot against the rough stones at their feet, "I'd never seen it before."

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He'd really been a total idiot. She wasn't even thinking about the blasted kiss, or lack of it. "He'll get over it," he said kindly, "He'd never do anything to hurt you, or your mother."

She snorted derisively, sounding more like her younger sibling than he'd ever noticed before. "Well, at least one of us is feeling optimistic..." she muttered, shifting to stand on her feet as she groaned irritably at the ceiling, "Ugh, what is it with me and my siblings?"

She stepped away from him slightly, clenching and unclenching her fists. He followed. "You mustn't beat yourself over the head with this," he said, "it won't help anything."

But she wasn't really listening, the words tumbling out of her like water through a cracked dam. "I mean the fact of the matter is that no matter what happens it will all turn out to be _my _fault," she said gesturing angrily, "It's like I never even have a chance to get things right. Father dies and suddenly I'm expected to pick up where he left off like it's the easiest thing in the world, as if I should know what to do, how to keep us safe in the face of everything. Even a bloody, blasted Blight! Should have been a simple thing to keep us all safe, to keep us all _alive_ but I can't even manage that can I? Maker's breath but this place _reeks_ of the taint."

He stopped her, putting his hands on her shoulders as he looked into her face. "I understand."

She laughed at him, her brows knitted with disgust as she shrugged off his grasp. "No you don't," she spat angrily, her words carrying across the chamber, "How could you? You don't know what it's like to have this... this constant need hanging over you. Their need, your responsibility. You've never had that. You've only ever had to look after yourself!"

She turned away from him, heading towards the steps, but he took her by the hand. "Don't take this out on me Hawke," he said calmly, his voice soothing, "I'm trying to understand."

Stood above him on the first step, she shook his hand from hers. "Stop trying," she snapped, her eyes full of fire, "It's a pointless endeavour. You couldn't possibly understand. You've never loved anyone."

Her words stung in his ears as she turned and sprinted up the staircase. He'd never known her like this. That she could twist his own confidences against him like that, that she could be so petty when all he was trying to do was help. As if lashing out at her closest friend would do any good, would do anything other than make the situation worse for both of them. Maker's breath she made him angry, it was like a buzzing in his ears, a building, roaring sound.

She headed up the staircase two steps at a time. Everything in this place: the smell, the closeness, the dark oppressed her. Perhaps the smell was worst of all: the dank earth and fiery brimstone mingling with the unmistakable, sickeningly sweet smell of Blighted flesh. It had clawed its way into her nostrils for days now, clinging to her lungs like it wanted to drown her in the memory.

That she would fixate on what he'd said about Karl like that... Was that what this was all about? So what if he hadn't kissed her, surely she had more than enough brains in that head of hers to realise why he couldn't act, even if he wanted to. If she could be like this, maybe it was for the best that he hadn't...

That buzzing, it just kept getting louder, he could hardly think.

No... that wasn't...

"No!" he shouted, running up the staircase with Varric and Fenris close behind, "Hawke, don't!"

She could half-hear the others following her as she approached the door, much as she half-heard the suggestions that she wait for them to catch up before she went and opened it. It all dimmed into insignificance beneath the rising stench, the stench of Lothering and death.

The door opened readily, and she walked in without a second thought. It was empty, and she was about to turn back to her companions with some snipe about worrying over nothing when she heard the creature snort. Her body tensing, she turned, and then she was frozen, staring up into the eyes of the very beast that had shattered her family.

He got to the doorway just behind Varric, saw her turning to face the ogre he had sensed, her face ashen, her body immobile. The beast pawed the ground, readying to charge.

"For the Maker's sake Hawke," Varric cried, "do something!"

But she was trapped, her eyes locked with an expression of helpless horror.

"Ariadne!" Anders shouted, as the ogre began to shift, "_Move!_"

The sound of her name clung to the air, and the life it stirred in her eyes flared instantly. The ogre charged, and she dived just in time, hitting the ground on her hands and knees, shredding her breeches and palms. The ogre charged straight into the wall, its horns trapping it in the stone. Fenris and Varric leapt into action as Anders dashed across the room to Ariadne, dragging her to her feet by her elbow. Turning they both began casting at the beast with all the speed they could muster, working side by side and timing her shots to his for maximum impact as Fenris drew the creature's ire. They battled ferociously, piling injury upon injury and wound upon wound to no avail.

The second charge scattered them, knocking Anders to one side and sending Hawke hurtling into Varric. The healer struggled to his feet as Fenris chased after the beast, hacking at its tendons as it turned back towards the woman and the dwarf.

Its footsteps shaking the very ground beneath them, the ogre staggered forward as Hawke raised her staff, her face full of rage and hate. The ogre froze for a moment, and then fell at their feet. Looking at Ariadne over the corpse of the slain beast, Anders could see that her ruined palms were not only bleeding freely, but trembling. Her whole body was trembling, her face the very image of a little girl whose nightmare has come to life.

Slinging Bianca into her harness, Varric clearly wasn't in the mood to notice such details. He turned on Ariadne angrily. "What in Andraste's name was that?"

She blinked, her eyes watering, her throat tensing. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

"Sorry?" the dwarf spat angrily, "Sorry almost got us _killed_ Hawke!"

She rounded on him, her eyes flashing with rage. "Shut your mouth dwarf!" she snarled as her blood spattered his cheek, "You got us into this mess!" she looked up, waving at Fenris and Anders, "All of you! Stop looking at me like I've grown a second _head_. I froze, alright!" She stared at them, her eyes stinging with rage and fear and hatred. "It won't happen again, and if it does it isn't exactly you who'll get your head caved in, is it?" she hissed, heading back to the door.

"_That_ at least is a blessing," the elf grumbled darkly, though not quietly enough to go unheard.

She paused in the doorframe. For just a second Anders was certain that she would round on Fenris with the full force of her anger. She didn't.

Leaving Varric and Fenris to their mutterings, he followed. He should have realised, should have listened, even for just one second to what she had been saying.

'What is it with me and my siblings?'

'Should have been a simple thing to keep us all safe, to keep us all _alive_ but I can't even manage that can I?'

He'd been a fool, and he'd curse himself forever if she went and slipped into some crater now. He'd been so caught up his own feelings that he hadn't even considered what it would mean to her to see darkspawn again. She was already halfway out of sight by the time he was down the stairs, disappearing down a side passage he hadn't even spotted before, little more than an over-sized fissure in the living rock. He crossed the hall quickly, entering the passage and following its narrow twisting pathway until he heard a distinct sniff around the corner up ahead. He paused, moving forward carefully towards the bend, leaning on the wall for support against the uneven floor. He slipped, hitting the wall loudly.

"Maferath's cock," she cursed at the sound, "will you just leave me alone?"

He shifted slightly, trying to regain his footing. "Alright," he said, wobbling slightly, "I'll try."

A small head poked around the corner. "Anders? I'm sorry I didn't..."

He succeeded in getting his feet level, but not before he registered a large, bloody handprint on the wall beside him. "It's fine," he said, stepping towards her unsteadily, "I understand if you just want to be on your own. Not that I necessarily think it's the best idea. At the very least someone should take a look at your hands."

She sighed, moving round the corner to stand before him, and leaning up against the wall. Taking that as resignation, he reached for her nearest hand, turning it up to expose the torn skin and muscle. Reaching into his satchel he pulled out his canteen, sprinkling the wound with a little water to clean it.

"They're angry," she said quietly, wincing at the cold water on her raw nerves.

He nodded. "Varric has a right to be angry," he said, tucking the canteen under his arm as his hands began to glow, "but that's only because he doesn't understand."

She looked up at him, the blue radiance lighting his face from underneath as he concentrated on his task. "And you do?" she asked, half-hopefully.

"I can have a guess," he replied, running his thumbs over her healed skin before taking her other hand, "Mostly because you've never talked about exactly _how_ Bethany died."

His directness caught her off guard. She stood speechless as he healed her other hand, only regaining her voice when he crouched down in the cramped space to inspect her ruined knees. "She didn't stand a chance," she said quietly, leaning back and letting him take the weight off her right leg, her voice hollow, echoing down the passageway, "Mother couldn't defend herself and I was on the other side of it. She fought, but that only seemed to make it more angry..." she paused, the healing magic's soothing lost on her tormented senses, "The ogre grabbed her before we had a chance..." she shifted her weight so that he could work on the other leg, her voice wavering, "Slammed her into the ground, over and over."

The second knee was little more than skinned, and he got awkwardly to his feet as she continued, her voice trembling as much as her hands. "The whole side of her head... I couldn't look at her. I didn't know what to say. Mother was so angry..." she trailed off, her breathing ragged, and he could sense that she was hovering on the cusp.

"You know," he said, taking her hands gently, "one of the first things you ever said to me was that you didn't blame yourself."

She broke, her desperately built walls crumbling as he pulled her into an embrace. "I do," she sobbed, her whole body shaking with emotions, "I do, of course I do. Sometimes it feels like I can think about nothing else."

He wrapped his arms around her, resting his hand on her hair. "You know you were powerless..."

"But I shouldn't have been!" she howled, struggling against his arms in a way that only made him hold her tighter, "I should have been stronger, moved faster... I should have saved her!"

"But you couldn't," he said quietly, refusing to relinquish his grip, his voice soothing, "and you didn't. You can't change that."

"That..." she choked, losing the will to fight, "that doesn't mean..."

"That you don't wish you could?" he said, stroking her hair as she rested her head against his shoulder, "I know."

"I loved her," she said desperately, her chest heaving, "Everyone loved her so much."

He nodded, his other hand squeezing her shoulder. "The way you talk about her, I don't doubt that."

Her sobs were subsiding now, her voice little more than a whisper. "Things would be so different, if only..."

He pulled back from her, looking into her face in the dim light filtering down the passageway. "You know you can't think like that," he said firmly, smoothing her hair back from her face, "You mustn't torture yourself over things that just can't be fixed."

She laughed bitterly at that, wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. "Tell that to Carver," she paused, biting her lower lip as last tremors of her tears shook her, "I'm so worried about him. I just... can't shift the feeling that he's going to do something awful."

In all honesty he had to agree with her, but that wasn't what she needed to hear right now. "He loves you," he said kindly, reaching into his satchel for a handkerchief, "whatever he does you mustn't doubt that."

She nodded, drying her face with the cloth she offered. "Sorry about your feathers," she murmured, making him chuckle.

"We should probably get back to the others," he said warmly, turning back down the passageway, "They're not much good to us if the genlocks eat them. Poor bastards don't even have Ser Pounce-a-lot to protect them."

He moved to begin picking his way back down the tunnel, but she stopped him, taking his hand gently in her fingertips. "Thank you, Anders," she said, the tunnel light making her eyes shine, "You've been... an extraordinary friend, even though I've done so little to deserve it."

Her words caught his breath, and he gave her fingertips a quick squeeze. "I could say the same thing, Ariadne," he said, smiling at her over his shoulder, "Don't underestimate what you've done for me."

Outside the entrance to the passageway they found a rather sheepish looking dwarf.

Echoes. The tunnel had echoed. Oh Maker's breath they'd heard everything she'd said, hadn't they?

"I don't really know what to say Hawke," Varric said, his expression sorrowful as he looked up at her, "Except that I'm sorry."

"Don't be, Varric," she replied, squeezing his shoulder with a soft smile, "You didn't know."

The dwarf covered her hand with his own. "Maybe if you told me more of this sort of thing I'd be less prone to making an ass of myself."

She chuckled, wiping her eyes with the back of a hand as she said, "But you're so adorable when you make an arse of yourself!"

Beside them, the elf stood from where he'd been leaning against the wall. "Hawke, I..."

But the warmth she had for the dwarf did not extend to their other companion. "She was just another mage, Fenris," she said coldly, her eyes impassive as she turned to face him, "Don't act like you actually care."

Green eyes cast floorwards, the former slave cocked his head in an abrupt bow as he muttered, venomously, "As you wish."

* * *

><p>That night in camp was a peaceful one, as everyone tried to rest as well as possible for the journey to the Thaig. With Fenris sulking, and Varric spending the evening with Bartrand, he'd once again been given the task of standing guard while she was bathing. This time he definitely wasn't going to look. He would keep his resolve, remain honourable.<p>

And then she giggled.

In a flash his head whipped around and he was looking back into the chamber. She was bending forward, wrists deep in the basin as she moved them carefully. He could just make out the glistening swell of her breast as she drew backwards, removing the bar of soap from the water, the steam peeling from her body, that creamy expanse of her back as tendrils of water snaked their way down towards the cleft of her backside. Andraste's _tits_ it was a good thing he wore such a thick coat.

The skin on her newly healed hands was soft and supple, and the soap kept skipping out of her hands into the basin, splashing her with the warm water and making her giggle. In the warmth of these underground caverns, when she could forget the gravel digging into her knees and the smell of lichen and dirt, she could almost enjoy her bathing. She bent forward to lather her hair carefully, soaping thoroughly at the roots in the knowledge that it might be days before she got another opportunity to wash like this. The soap crept down into her eyes, stinging like the buggery.

When she got back to Kirkwall, she told herself with a sigh, she'd buy some of that lovely beeswax soap Lady Elegant had on her stall, a thick rich bar of honeyed gold. Her father had sometimes made soaps with beeswax back in Lothering, if he found a beehive or if he needed a little extra coin to help an escapee. She remembered those soaps, moulded by his hands, the rich and foamy bubbles they'd trail through the water. Sometimes he'd put dried lavender in them, because he knew she liked it, arranging the tiny buds in patterns or to spell her name. A gift made in love, in thoughtfulness.

Drying herself, she pulled on a clean vest and smallclothes under the shirt she wore to sleep in and, letting Anders know that it was safe to go back to the campfire, slung the dirty, soapy water down a channel in the rock.

Picking her way carefully and barefooted back to the fire she and her companions were sleeping around, she found Anders busying himself with the kettle, his back turned towards her.

"Good bath?" he quipped, hoping desperately that his coat would obscure the slight tremor in his hands.

She chuckled, dropping down onto her bedroll as she towelled her hair. "I'm sure the Blooming Rose itself would be jealous," she replied cheerfully.

"I'm making some tea," he said, unnecessarily.

"I can see that," she teased, pulling the blanket over her knees.

He glanced back at her, shirt hanging soft and loosely from her shoulders, tendrils of water-darkened hair framing her face. "I m-meant," he half stammered, concentrating on filling the pot, "would you like some?"

"I'll never say no to tea," she said, teasing at her hair with her fingers.

Smiling, he wandered around the fire to sit on the end of her bedroll with the pot in one hand and two cups in the other. As she took the cups from him the brush of her fingers sent little shivers down his spine. He leant over, offering the teapot as she held up the first cup.

"Are you tired?" she asked, indicating the tremor in his hand.

He shook his head. "Nothing a bit of tea and a good night's sleep won't iron out," he said smiling. He moved carefully to tip the pot, but his hands were shaking so badly that the stream missed the cup entirely and splashed on the back of her hand.

"Shit!" she exclaimed, dropping the cup onto the bedroll and pulling her hand back.

He quickly put the pot down on the ground. "Oh Andraste's arse I am _so_ sorry!"

"It's ok," she hissed, shaking her hand slightly, "really it just..._stings_."

He leant forward, reaching for her hand. "Hang on," he said, all traces of nerves disappearing from his mind, "Just let me..." he cupped her hand gently in his palm, the blue light radiating from his hovering fingertips and easing the reddening scald. "There," he said, smiling up at her as his hands lingered on hers, "Good as new."

She smiled prettily, releasing her lower lip from between her teeth. "Thank you."

"It's fine," he said, feeling the weight of her hand in his own, "I shouldn't have been so clumsy."

She shook her head slightly. "No harm done," she said, glancing down at their hands.

He dropped her hand gently, turning to collect the cups. "Except for wasted tea," he said playfully.

She chuckled. "That really is a sin," she said, watching him place the cups beside the teapot and pour, all traces of tremor now gone from his steady hands. "You know," she said, taking the offered cup from him with a smile, "I admire you a great deal, Anders, being a healer," she blew on the steaming brew as he regarded her uncertainly, "What you do, it's important in a way that goes beyond anything I do. You help people. Mend things instead of just... breaking them."

"I'm also an abomination," he quipped, raising his own cup to his cooling breath.

"But you were a healer first," she said, taking a first, tentative sip, "or so you lead me to believe."

"I was," he said, relaxing slightly, "I always had an affinity for such things."

"Do you think you could teach me?" she asked, looking up at him over the rim of her cup.

"Teach you?" he repeated, confused.

She nodded, putting her cup down in front of her. "I promise I'm a good student," she said eagerly, "especially with someone I trust."

He put his cup down next to hers, running a hand over his hair. "I don't doubt that Ariadne," he said, trying not to sound utterly patronising, "I'm just not certain this is the sort of thing that can be taught."

"Anyone can wield Creation energy with practice," she replied brightly, looking at him earnestly, "With a skilful teacher I'm sure I could learn."

She leant forward to pick up her cup. "It's been a long time since I learnt any new spells," she said thoughtfully, "Father was never exactly an active mage – he was always more of a scholar. Never fought if he could help it. He taught us the basics, enough to defend ourselves if we needed to, and skills that were useful at home: lighting candles, making ice to chill food." She paused, sipping her tea. "The truth of the matter is that I'm bored with destruction," she said quietly, "I don't feel..."

"Challenged?" he suggested cautiously.

She nodded, holding up a hand and watching it shimmer as a fine coating of frost crept down from her fingertips and over her palms. "I've been casting the same spells over and over since I was a child," she said, watching the ice crystals glitter across her skin, "As I grow stronger, so will those spells," she snapped her fingers, and the ice evaporated into curls of steams, "but it seems a waste for me to sit back on what I know. My mind is capable of more."

He watched with fascination as the ice shimmered over her hands, only to vanish in a puff. "That I don't doubt," he said, smiling slightly, "Have you not thought of Primal? Or Spirit even?"

"I have," she said, slurping at the surface of her tea, "While my father didn't use them as such he was, like I said, a scholar. He taught us about them in principle, and Bethany and I learnt some useful techniques. I could pursue them, I suppose, but you and I both know there's a great deal that you can't learn from books," she said firmly, looking him in the eye, "things that you need a teacher for."

He laughed. "Who says I'm a good teacher?" he said mischievously, "I'm not even sure I'd want you usurping my role!"

"You won't always be with us," she replied, watching him as he drank from his cup, "You're not even obliged to help us now."

He frowned at that. "I'm not with you out of obligation," he said seriously, "Well, maybe technically I am, but I'd come along for the adventure anyway. I told you. I enjoy it."

"But you have commitments," she replied, smiling just a little at the enthusiasm in his expression, "I can't rush to you every time some Templar sticks his sword in my leg. It isn't fair."

"Look Ariadne," he said, putting a hand over her own, "if a Templar is sticking his sword in your leg, I kind of want to know."

'_So we can eviscerate him.'_

'Yes, dear, calm down.'

"You know what I mean," she chuckled, turning her hand under his so that their palms met, "Even if I knew just a little bit of what you do I could help, spend time in the clinic. Do something for other people and not just myself."

He smiled, trying to keep his breathing even as she wrapped her slender fingers around his hand and squeezed. "You say that like you're most selfish person in Thedas," he said, almost sure that she would be able to hear the pounding of his heart as he lightly squeezed back.

"Aren't I?" she said, withdrawing her hand gently and bringing to rest over her throat, "What's one small family against the hordes of refugees down in Darktown? Whilst I'm making a name for myself among the lowlifes and the vagabonds, you save lives. Is it wrong for me to want to be part of that side of things for a change?"

"No of course it isn't," he said, taking the teapot to refill her cup, "Look Hawke..." he paused, clearing his throat, "Ariadne, if these things _can_ be taught, and I'm not saying they can, I'll try. I may not be as good as your father, but I will try."

"I'm sure you'll be wonderful," she replied, smiling softly, "You're patient if nothing else. And it'll give us something to do down here. When we're not... you know... killing darkspawn. I've got some books I found in that Abandoned Foundry, the killer must have stolen them from the Circle here. I'll get to reading them and then I'll come back to you."

"Alright," he said, carefully passing her back her cup, "when would you like to start?"

"Tomorrow?" she asked, sipping at the hot liquid.

He frowned at her. "But you just said..."

"I'll be honest," she said quickly, "I already read them before we left. Like I said, it's been a long time since I learnt any new spells, and I figured I'd be able to persuade you one way or another."

He laughed. "Glad to know you think I'm so easily swayed," he said, taking his cup and the pot and getting to his feet.

"You're not going to change your mind are you?" she asked, looking up at him with wise, almond-shaped eyes.

"No," he said, leaving the cup and the pot in a basin by the fire, "but that doesn't mean I won't."

He glanced back at her, smiling warmly. "I won't, you know," he said reassuringly, "I actually think it's a good idea."

Her smile lit her whole face. "I'm glad."

Moving around the fire he made his way to his bedroll and began unbuckling his coat. "We should get some sleep," he said, "Long day tomorrow."

Still swirling her tea around in the bottom of her cup, it took a moment for Ariadne to realise that Anders was undressing, pulling his shirt over her head and dropping his hands to undo his breeches. "I'll just..." she said, shifting nervously, "uh..."

"No need to avert your gaze," he chuckled, glancing back at her over his shoulder, "It's not like it's anything you haven't seen before."

She smiled, sipping her tea as he loosened the breeches from his smallclothes and scooted them down from his hips. "You know," she said, sneaking a glance, Maker's breath the boy had skinny legs, "maybe you should just not play Diamondback. Especially when Isabela is dealing."

"You think she cheats?" he asked sarcastically, bundling his breeches with his shirt and chucking them on top of his coat, "No! Whyever would she do such a thing?"

"Probably because she has a thing for scrawny mages," she mused, watching the sediment swirl in the water as he sat down on his bedroll in his vest and shorts, "Or men. Or anything on two legs. Or anything... breathing."

'_You are not scrawny.'_

'She was hardly going to call me "bulky", now was she?'

He smirked, reaching into his pack for a clean vest. "Well I can't say it hasn't gone unnoticed that she hasn't got you out of your smallclothes yet," he said, pulling his vest over his head.

He really was lean wasn't he? Not that she hadn't seen it before, or at least glimpsed it across a room full of drunken reprobates, but here in the firelight, casually conversing as he changed his vest it was... noticeable. "Really? You must have been paying attention..." she said teasingly, finishing her tea in one mouthful, "I can usually bluff my way around her cheating. I have an innocent face."

"Is that what you call it?" he asked, eyebrow raised. He watched her for a moment, cradling her empty cup against her chest as a shadow passed over her expression, "How are you feeling now?"

"Better," she sighed, "thanks to you. I didn't even realise there was..." she paused, yawning deeply, "so much weight on my chest."

'_I do not understand. Her chest is clearly not as weighty as the underdressed pirate.'_

'It was a metaphor, Justice. _Emotional_ weight.'

"Well," he said, putting the dirty vest back into his pack, "I'm glad. But just in case you were going to stay awake all night beating yourself up about it. I put a sleeping draught in your tea."

She smiled sleepily. "I figured as much," she said softly, "A little tip? Don't use rosemary to mask the taste. I prefer lavender."

He got to his feet, walking towards her. "I'll bear that in mind," he said warmly, "Now, stop fighting it and give me your cup."

Her eyes wavered slightly in her head, and she held on to his hands as he tried to take the cup. "You're a lovely..." she said, looking dozily up at him, "Sleepy."

"I know," he said, placing the cup down on the floor, as he cupped her head gently to stop her from falling, "just lie back. Carefully now. There's a good girl."

As he adjusted her carefully into a sleeping position through the blanket, he realised that if anyone came in on them like this that things would look... well... pretty bad for him. He sat back on his ankles, reaching forward to clear the strands of her dark, lustrous hair from her face. She really was extraordinarily beautiful, those high cheekbones and long eyelashes catching the firelight just so. Her lips, still moistened by the tea, were ever so slightly parted, and just begging for him to kiss them. He cupped her cheek, letting his thumb brush just under her lower lip.

Fixing the image of her in his mind, he moved over to his bedroll and drew another vial of sleeping draught from his pack. The two combined would be enough to keep the nightmares at bay.

* * *

><p>His voice felt hollow in his throat as the vision ended. "She was so young," he said, shivering slightly despite the airless warmth of the Fade, "Too young to have lost so much."<p>

They were in a field now, a dim meadow of rabbit-bitten grass. The guide sat beside him where he lay, her knees curled up to her chest. "And were you so old?" she asked gently, looking down at him with those wide brown eyes as he rubbed a patch of skin on his neck, "She was twenty-one, and you were twenty-six. She was hardly a child."

He sat up at that, scrutinising her face intently. "You think she should have pushed me?" he asked, unable to stop the anger creeping into his voice, "Thrown herself at me, knowing that I wouldn't have the heart, the strength to push her away?"

She shrugged. "She wonders it," she replied, "She wonders if it might have made a difference."

"How can we know?" he retorted, his volume rising, "What's the point of wondering?"

"It is why we are _here_ Anders," she said firmly, her expression scolding, "You are here to consider how things might have been different. Only then will you understand what your actions really meant."

"And what good will that do?" he exclaimed, getting to his feet, "Rehashing it all like one of Varric's trashy novels? What good does it do for either of us to relive this? I _know_ what my actions meant. I understand their consequences."

But the guide was not about to accept that, following him as he tried to walk away from her, she took him by the arm. "That," she said angrily, "is exactly what Ariadne doubts."

He shook off her grip, surprised by its strength. "And there you go again," he snapped back, stepping towards her, encroaching on her space, "Calling her by her name. Who are you?"

"I am the guide," she replied, the fire in her eyes quenching itself as she stepped back from him, "I am a part of her, someone she trusts to lead you through this."

"So you are _someone_?" he said, determined to uncover the truth.

"I am a projection of someone," she repeated, looking at him with almond-shaped eyes, "Someone she believes pure enough to show you the truth." She paused, a little colour creeping into her cheeks as her expression softened. "I'm a little idealised, I suspect," she said quietly, almost sadly, "but there is nothing I can do about that."

As her sad gaze met his he made the connection at last. "Bethany," he croaked, hardly able to speak.

The name seemed to send a shiver down her spine. "What did you say?" she whispered.

"Your name," he said, reaching up to place a hand on her cheek, "is Bethany." He swallowed, emotion tightening his throat, "I see it now. Your eyes are the same shape."

The girl before him trembled, her eyes shifting uneasily. "I... I don't..."

"You're her sister," he said, seeing the shimmering in her eyes.

"I'm a projection..." she stammered, emotion threatening to overwhelm her, "of... someone she loves v-very much."

"You are," he replied, watching the silent tears streaking down her face, "You're Bethany," he repeated, without even being sure why she _needed_ to hear it, "and she'd gladly have turned the whole world aside to save you."

At that her resolve broke, and the guide sobbed openly. He held her by the arms, unsure whether embracing a projection was the right or even a useful thing to do. "She would..." she said, her shoulders heaving as she covered her face with her hands, "And now you know why it was me that she chose to save you."


	7. We Need to Go Deeper

**Chapter 7: We Need to go Deeper (AKA: Deeper and Deeper)**

He stepped back from the Bethany-guide, shaking his head. "She chose _you_ to save me?" he asked, incredulously, "We're nothing like each other."

"She loves us," the young woman replied, ghostly tear-tracks on her too-human face, "and she feels that she failed us."

The world was shifting around them, he found himself leaning back against a large rock in the sheltered passage of a cave. "She _is_ comparing us," he groaned, covering his face with his hands, "In the Maker's name why?"

The Bethany guide turned away from him, running her hands along the wall as she walked away from the light streaming into the tunnel. "I can't tell you that," she said sadly, drying her eyes with the back of a hand in a gesture that was utterly Ariadne, "You know I can't."

He looked up slowly, his eyes stern. "So you keep saying," he said quietly, his voice cold, "but I can't help but wonder if it's that you can't, or that you won't."

Following the curve of the tunnel round, the Bethany-guide found a large chamber, lit by the ghost of a fire. "This is a spell," she reminded him, perusing the edge of the chamber as he followed, lingering at a raised stone ledge, "Imperfectly cast and tenuous, but a spell nonetheless. There are rules here, and I must abide by them as well as you."

He persisted, watching the slipping and warping of the walls of the cave. "But you've said yourself that you don't exist," he replied, wondering why everywhere here was warm, and the air so stifling, "that you're nothing more than a projection."

"It is complicated," she said, pausing on the other side of the fire, looking at the empty ground in some inscrutable way, her face dark, "and I cannot explain."

"I want answers," he said firmly, stepping forward and taking her arm, "I'm here to _get_ answers."

She shrugged off his grip as if it were the merest thing, moved carefully as if to sit _beside_ the space she had been looking at. "I cannot tell you," she said. Closing her eyes and breathing deeply, she tilted her head, as in she was leaning against someone, someone significantly taller than herself.

Irritated, he walked away from her, walking towards the ledge of stone. "Then I'll ask someone who will," he muttered bitterly. For some reason he couldn't put his finger on, he couldn't bring himself to sit down on the ledge, even though it seemed to be covered in blankets. Leaning up against the wall beside it, he closed his eyes momentarily.

'Justice?'

"He won't answer," the guide said quietly.

He ignored her, and tried speaking the word aloud. "Justice?"

Nothing. No response and yet no absence. A refusal, a silent refusal to answer. Was that even possible?

"He will not respond," the Bethany-faced being told him as he opened his eyes.

He frowned at her, confused and lost and suddenly aware of his loneliness. "He's still in here," he said, touching his fingertips to his brow, "but he's silent. He hasn't been this quiet since... I don't think he's ever been this quiet."

The girl got to her feet, her expression tender as she moved towards him. "He is still within you," she said kindly, "Listen carefully, Anders. Only you can contact him."

Closing his eyes he tried to clear his mind of other thoughts, focusing on Justice's silence, on the deep place within him where the spirit refused to speak.

"He feels..." he whispered, "guilty." His eyes flew open and he looked searchingly at his guide, "He feels guilt," he repeated, a note of fear in his voice, "He has done something terrible. What has he done?"

The world was moving again, and under his eyelids the vision began to dance. "No doubt you will know soon enough," she said, placing a hand on his cheek as he was lost in the dreams.

* * *

><p>They had chosen a ruined dwelling to barricade themselves into for the night, but in the absence of a working fireplace they had made their campfire outside in the cavern. Sitting together in the firelight, they took stock of what few materials they had with them as Anders worked on throwing something edible together for supper.<p>

They had travelled, as always, with their bedrolls strapped to their day-packs, just in case they ended up too far from the others to return without rest. Varric had left Bianca's cleaning equipment, but brought along a small set of pans and containers. Naturally the dwarf regarded this as a mistake. Naturally he was the only one who did. Anders, as always, had refused to trust his medical supplies to anyone and insisted on hauling around his entire satchel of clinking bottles. Not that any of them were complaining at this point. Fenris had brought more water than it was reasonable for one elf to carry, and his insistence on having it made Ariadne suspect that at some point in his life he had been very thirsty. She had also spotted a wine bottle in his pack, but decided not to mention it. As for herself, she'd brought a change of clothes, a book and some unused tea leaves. She was pretty proud of the last one, but kicking herself about the things she'd left behind.

Cooking clearly made Anders cheerful. He was even half-humming to himself as he poked at the contents of the pan. All things considered, the smell was making her mouth water. It was a good thing garlic was so useful in medicine.

When they were done Anders removed the pan from the heat and turned to Fenris, who was nearest. "Would you like your Deep Mushrooms with lichen or without?" he asked playfully, ladling the earthy, herby mixture into the elf's bowl.

The elf regarded the mushrooms with disgust as Anders moved on to Varric. "Is this really all we are going to find to eat down here?" he grumbled.

"Unless you fancy eating rock wraith ribs or hurlock chops, Fenris," he quipped, repeating the process for the dwarf, "Yes."

Fenris glared at him. "Joking is a pointless exercise."

"Unlike brooding of course," he replied, turning to Ariadne with a wry smile, "That's vital."

"Mage, your attempts at humour are as wearisome as they are foolish."

"You know," he said to her, moving to sit in the space between the elf and Varric, "I never know which one of us he's talking to when he says that."

"It's you," she replied, spearing a large bit of mushroom on her fork, "It's always you. I'm 'woman'."

Varric chuckled. "You're sure you're not 'human'?" he asked.

"I don't know," she mumbled through her mouthful, "Maybe I'm 'blue eyes'."

"You are 'Hawke'," Fenris interjected harshly.

She swallowed. "Well that's just rubbish," she said, frowning in mock-seriousness, "Why would anyone call me that?"

"Beats me," Ander shrugged, leaning across Fenris with the pan, "More mushrooms with your mushrooms?"

Taking an extra spoonful onto her plate she grinned at him. "Maybe we should save them," she said, gesturing at the fungus-infested wall beside her, "You never know. We might run out."

For once, even Fenris laughed.

* * *

><p>As the evening wore on, it became more and more painfully apparent that none of them were ready to go to bed yet. Nervous, tense and worried, they sat around the fire making small talk and awkward jokes, even though they needed as much rest as they could get. Fenris had even given in and poured a cup of his wine for everyone. She could tell that they were all avoiding saying what they were really thinking, but even she didn't have the heart to bring the matter up.<p>

They had been abandoned, trapped by someone they had trusted, or rather, someone they had never thought _not _to trust. They might live long and healthy lives and die of old age down here before ever finding an exit. Of course, it was far more likely that they'd be killed by some unspeakable ancient evil, fall into a crater or just bore each other to death long before that was an issue, but the thought was hardly comforting. And if that wasn't enough, she just wasn't feeling very well. She shivered slightly.

"You are cold," Fenris said, green eyes watching her intently.

She shook her head, not wanting to draw attention to the issue. "I'm fine," she said quietly.

"Hawke is cold," he announced to the rest of the group.

Varric turned to her, his eyes concerned. "You alright sweetheart?" he asked kindly.

She nodded, forcing a smile. "It's nothing," she said, unable to repress another shiver.

Varric eyed her sceptically. "Blondie," he said, looking over at their companion, "take a look at her will you?"

She squirmed uneasily as he got to his feet, moving to kneel in front of her. "I'm fine," she said, trying to avoid his enquiring gaze, "Anders just..."

"If you're embarrassed," he said quietly, looking at her pupils, "we can go into another room."

She shook her head, trying to escape from the impassive, medical look in his eyes. "No," she said firmly, "Seriously it's not a problem."

"But you're in pain," he said, frowning as he put reached out and brushed his thumb over her forehead, "You're perspiring."

Varric leant around Anders shoulder to get a closer look. "I thought you were cold?" he said.

"Does she have a fever?" Fenris asked from behind her.

"Really," she said, her voice a little squeaky now as her panic rose, "I'm fine."

He stretched out his hands, tapered fingers aglow. "Where is the discomfort?" he asked, closing his eyes to allow his senses to work.

"Anders," she muttered desperately, "I don't..."

Hands hovering over her body swept first upward and then, sensing nothing, moved down, and down, and down.

He stopped, the tingling glow settling right on the source of her pain, eyes opening abruptly as his cheeks coloured. "Oh," he said.

Behind him, Varric looked at the hands hovering over her lower belly. "Oh," he said.

Fenris leaned around, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening as Anders backed away slightly. "What?" he said.

Blushing deeply, she gathered her pack into her lap in a protective gesture. "Please just leave me alone," she grumbled, "I left my stuff back at the camp."

"Well that was pretty foolish," Anders teased, turning to rifle through his pack, "Let's see what I can fix up."

"I got my days confused..." she said, pouting slightly, "It's not exactly easy to keep track down here."

"Well look," he said, drawing a jar of powder from his pack with a flourish, "I'll mix this into your wine, that should keep the pain at bay, and..." he paused, pressing glowing fingertips to her aching belly, "_this_ should ease the bleeding." He hesitated momentarily, "Do you need... uh..." he thought quickly, "I've got some bandages if they'll be any use."

"No," she said, wishing the ground would just swallow her whole, "I kept that sort of thing with my clothes. I'll be fine." She took back her wine gratefully as Anders moved away.

Fenris seemed confused. "She is bleeding?" he asked, eyebrows raised, "What manner of fever is this?"

Varri chuckled. "Fenris, how much do you remember about the workings of the female body?"

Wine was not enough to distract her from the conversation the elf and dwarf conducted. Fenris' ignorance really was quite astounding. She was contemplating just throwing herself at the nearest darkspawn sword when the former slave turned to her, his expression a mixture of interest, and concern.

"So you are bleeding now," he said plainly, "Will that make it easier for the darkspawn to track us?"

She nearly dropped her cup. "They're not _sharks_, Fenris!" she exclaimed, far louder and more shrilly than she had intended. She turned to Anders, her eyes wide with alarm, "Are they?"

"No," the healer replied, trying to suppress a chuckle, "Ignore him, Ariadne."

"You're an Ariadne?" Varric interjected, surprised, "As in... Ariadne and Magellan?"

"Yes, yes," she sighed, "waited around for years while her husband was off shagging Flemeth."

Fenris frowned. "Is not your hound called Magellan?"

Varric started chuckling.

"Carver thought it was funny," she muttered, her cheeks burning.

Varric roared with laughter.

"You know," Anders said, as she put her head into her hands, "your brother's not normally got a sense of humour, but that's actually pretty good."

* * *

><p>An hour or so and a second cup of wine later, she wasn't feeling nearly so defensive. She was, however, still feeling the cold. Once again Fenris noticed.<p>

"She is still shivering," he said, turning to Anders accusingly, "You did not heal her womb sufficiently."

Ariadne groaned. "Please don't use that word, Fenris," she said pleadingly, "Ever?"

Shaking his head slightly Anders got to his feet and shrugged of his coat. "Put this on," he said, "No buts."

"Fine," she replied as he draped it around her shoulders. The thing dwarfed her entirely, and for the first time since he'd bought it he wondered if, just maybe, the feather weren't a little ridiculous. Still, she looked sweet swamped in the feathers, and he knew that the smell of her on the collar was going to bother him for days. She fidgeted absent-mindedly with the buckles. "Are those..." she paused, frowning slightly at a leather strap, "my teethmarks?"

He looked up sharply at that. "What?"

"This belt," she said, holding it up, "on your coat. That's where you had me bite down when you pulled that bolt out of my shoulder."

His expression cleared. "So it is," he said, settling himself down again.

"You haven't replaced it?"

He shrugged, picking up his cup. "I'd never find one that matched," he replied.

She waved it slightly. "But it doesn't exactly match now."

"It doesn't..." he said, swirling the wine in his cup and sniffing it, looking at her over the rim with raised eyebrows, "Maybe I should get you to bite me more often."

She chuckled, picking a pebble off the ground and casting it at him. "You're hopeless."

"So Hawke," Varric said, "what books did you bring?"

She shrugged, watching the dwarf finish off the last of his wine. "Who says I brought any?" she asked nonchalantly.

Varric raised an eyebrow.

"Fine," she sighed, "I brought three."

The dwarf was impressed. "Such restraint!" he exclaimed teasingly, "What are they?"

"My journal," she said, counting it off on her first finger.

"That doesn't count!" Varric interrupted, "Unless you want us to read it?"

She scowled at his smirking face. "Uh... _no_," she said firmly, counting onto her second finger, "There's... a political history of Antiva..."

Varric groaned. "Gripping I'm sure."

Anders shook his head. "What is it with you and history books?" he asked.

"I find history fascinating," she said, shrugging, "I always have. Anyway it's Antiva. It's all..." she paused to think of the right phrase, "Assassinations and political intrigue. It's really good."

The dwarf shook his head. "Your definition of good and mine are far, far apart Hawke," he muttered.

"I didn't bring it for you, did I?" she replied, poking her tongue out at him, "Anyway I'm not sure about the last one," she drew the paper-wrapped book out of her bag, "Isabela turned up while I was packing and just gave it to me. Said it was relevant to my interests."

Varric grinned. "Now that's what I'm talking about!" he exclaimed, leaning forward, "Hand it over."

She pulled it out of his reach. "No!" she exclaimed, "I'm not having you spoil it now, it's got to last me for weeks yet."

Disappointed, the dwarf sat back. "And that's all you brought?" he asked, frowning, "A history book and a porno?"

"It's not a!" she burst out, before stopping herself, "Actually you're probably right." She frowned at the wrapped volume, putting it back in her bag. "So what did you bring?" she asked.

"Well that's just it," Varric sighed, resting his arm over his knee, "I figured you'd bring so many I wouldn't need any."

Her eyes widened slightly. "You... didn't bring any books?"

The dwarf shook his head. "Sorry Hawke."

She looked across the fire at the healer. "Anders?" she asked

"Don't look at me, sweetheart," he said, shrugging his narrow shoulders, "I figured the same as Varric."

Panic rising, she whipped her head round to look at the elf.

"I can't read," he said, before she could even open her mouth.

"I..." she said, shoulders sagging, "Shit."

"Let's see that history one?" Anders asked, brightly.

Smiling, she reached into her bag. "Sure I... I..." her face fell, "I left it back at the camp."

Varric groaned disconsolately. "Isabela's porno had better be a shitting epic."

* * *

><p>It had become an unspoken rule that they slept side by side, there'd never been any doubt that she trusted him more than the others, or rather <em>Fenris<em> given that Varric slept over with Bartrand's team, but it meant something all the same. Even if the temptation to watch her washing every evening was testing his ability, he was glad of the opportunity to spend time with her, just quietly talking at the end of the day. It felt too easy, too natural to let himself rest by her side, to have her face be the first and last thing he saw in each day. With her still coming to terms with the grief she had never allowed herself to feel, the issue of what had or hadn't happened between them seemed unimportant, and she certainly made no attempt to raise it with him.

Later that night, however, the whole thing felt utterly different. Somehow the presence of walls and a roof overhead made the whole act of sharing a space seem entirely more intimate. Add into that the absence of the usual noise and bustle from the camp, and the fact that the room was only just wide enough to fit the bedrolls if they overlapped slightly and, well, it suddenly became a lot harder to sleep with the woman you fantasise about lying directly beside you.

After weeks of sleeping beside him, it was strange to find that it could suddenly seem so... Well... strange. She'd never felt so isolated, so vulnerable. Not to Anders as such, but to herself. Her nights had never been her own. The simple knowledge that she was sharing a room with her entire family was enough to keep even the most persistent feeling of desire at bay. Were her days not so busy, so full of work, she might have been tempted to visit the baths at the Blooming Rose. Never a moment alone, never time to unwind, and simply feel what it was to be, and to be a woman. But now she was here, the silence only broken by his breathing, his body the only other in the dark. It was difficult not to be distracted by that.

"You aren't sleeping," he said quietly, surprising her.

"I thought _you_ were," she replied, turning over to face him.

"It's difficult when..." he trailed off, rolling onto his back, "I'm not used to having anyone this close."

"I am," she said, with a slight smile, "but you don't snore like my mother."

He chuckled. "My apologies. I should try harder."

She sighed. "I suppose I'm just not... _used_ to things being so quiet," she said, "Even having my own bedroll feels strange. I always shared with Bethany before, and Gamlen's house isn't exactly roomy."

He nodded. "I remember back in the Circle," he said quietly, propping himself up on one elbow, "sleeping in the dormitories with the other boys. It was always so noisy, you just had to learn to shut it out as best as you could. Of course they moved me into my own quarters after my Harrowing. It was so silent in there that I didn't sleep properly for weeks."

She laughed quietly. "I think I'd have gone mad myself," she said.

Leaning forward, putting his lips as close to her face as he dared, he murmured, "You think I didn't?"

She laughed, hitting him in the stomach. "Haha, very funny," she said, jabbing him in the arm with a pointed finger, "Ooh I'm all of a quiver."

He chuckled, his voice lowering into a purr, "Really now? How intriguing."

She giggled, rolling onto her back. "Now now," she scolded, "you mustn't go importuning vulnerable young women. Or you'll get a reputation as a scoundrel."

"Oh really?" he asked, leaning further over her, "Sorry to disappoint you sweetheart, but I've been there and done _that_."

She pushed him over, her tone scandalized. "And here I am practically sharing a bedroll with you! Whatever will my mother say?"

He chuckled. "Probably something along the lines of: 'At least if she's with a man for a change I might get some grandchildren.'"

"You!" she gasped, "Ooh I could hit you."

He grinned into the darkness. "I dare you to," he said suggestively, "You never know, I might like it."

She sighed hopelessly. "You're maddening."

"And you my dear lady," he said, relaxing with his arms behind his head, "are far too easy to bait."

"Lady, is it now?" she smirked, rolling back over to face him, "Well I suppose I will be once my mother has her way..." she paused, something occurring to her, "Shit."

"What is it?"

She drew a slow breath through her teeth. "My mother," she said quietly, "Here I am joking about her when to all intents and purposes we're trapped in this Maker forsaken place. We could die down here, and no-one would ever even know. She'd never know."

He turned to face her. "You can't think like that," he said gently, "You have to stay strong."

He could feel her shaking her head. "This place is a prison, Anders," she said darkly, "Surely you of all people can understand what I feel here."

He reached out to her, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder. "I do," he said tenderly, "You feel trapped, and stifled and lost. You want nothing more than to feel the free air on your skin, to see the sun, the stars."

She nodded, feeling comfort in his proximity even as she shivered slightly. "I want..." she whispered, her words catching in her throat, "I want to apologize, I don't want the last thing I said to my mother to have been so spiteful."

She heard his breath, felt the warmth brushing her cheek in the cold, damp atmosphere. "It won't be," he said, moving his hand carefully to cup her cheek, "You have to believe that."

Despite herself, she felt her voice thickening with tears that threatened to spill. "It's hard," she murmured, her shoulder heaving slightly with a repressed sob.

"I know," he whispered, his voice infinitely comforting in the darkness, "But we will get through this. I swear to you."

Losing her grip on her emotions, she wept, fear claiming her despite the confidence she had shown to Varric and Fenris.

In spite of the voice, even voices, inside him, telling him that it was quite possibly the worse idea he'd ever had, he found himself shifting closer without a moment's hesitation. Slipping his arm around her shoulder, he gathered her into his chest, feeling her sobs shake her. He stroked her hair, pressing his face against the dense softness. She pressed her cheek into his chest, slipping her arm around his neck and drawing him closer. He felt himself trembling as if it were secondary, and his own fears were quashed in his need to comfort the woman in his arms. Even with the blankets pressed between them he could feel the shape of her, her trembling frame.

Lost in her thoughts, Ariadne was barely able to register the feel of him as she drifted off to sleep. Though the way his scent seeped into her hair and clothes would torment her for days to come, for now at least she was peaceful.

In time her breathing slowed until the point when he was certain that she had fallen asleep. It was strange, how something so alien, so feared, could feel so natural. She slept in his arms, and it felt as perfect, as comfortable as he could ever have imagined. That she could trust him like this was startling in a way he couldn't have possibly explained. She was innocent, despite everything she had witnessed in her life, and the need he felt around her was unlike anything he had ever known.

* * *

><p><em>The roaring burned in his ears, the sting of wind and flame against his cheeks. The horde moved beneath him, the tramp of boots a pulse that made his blood sing. On. On. Deeper and deeper into the dark. Ever searching, digging, the need overwhelming reason, overwhelming thought. The time would come, in ages or hours, in years or in moments when the archdemon would roar at last.<em>

"Anders? Anders wake up!"

He woke with a shout, starting forward though he found himself pinned to the bedroll by an arm across his chest. His eyes flew open, his heart pounding as the adrenaline coursed through him. Torchlight revealed him to be in a small stone room. A soft voice spoke beside him as a hand pressed itself to his cheek.

"It was just a nightmare," she said gently, as he turned his head to look up at her, "You're safe."

The sight of her leaning over him, looking down into his face, eyes wide with concern, made his mouth go dry. She had the softness of sleep about her, and her hair strayed forward so that the very tips of the strands just brushed across his chest. She was frightened, and the fear had bought colour into her cheeks, her soft, rosy lips just parted. He could feel her body pressed against him through the blankets, stirring feelings that he really, really didn't want to start having when she was so close.

"I..." he stammered, sitting up awkwardly, not watching as she turned herself to sit up beside him, "I'm sorry for waking you."

She shrugged slightly, hugging her knees up to her chest. "I think it's morning anyway. We seem to have slept pretty soundly," he could hear the worry in her voice, "That was no normal nightmare."

He pushed the spare cot away with his foot, standing with the barest of stretches. He couldn't bring himself to look at her, and made straight for his clothes. "No," he said quietly, "It wasn't."

He heard her moving behind him, turning to sit facing away from her. He pulled his breeches on quickly.

"Was it..." the hesitation cut him deeper than expected. She could tell that he was withdrawing from her, and she didn't know how to react. "Was it something to do with Justice?"

Fastening the laces, he glanced back at her, eyes lingering longer than he intended. Maker, she looked vulnerable. So slender without her armoured strapping. Not breakable as such, but so open and honest. She wanted to understand, and deep down he wanted nothing more than to strip himself bare before her, to let her examine every scar and just... know him. As their eyes met briefly he knew that nothing would be easier than to fall into that openness. He smiled awkwardly, and reached for his vest. "A warden thing, as it happens. One of the many perks. Normally I take a draught to knock me out, it must have slipped my mind."

She smiled at that, even as her eyes dimmed. She knew rejection well enough to see when it was being masked by civility. "If that's a perk," she quipped, leaning forward to pull her breeches from the pile, "I'd hate to know what the downsides are."

Always the humour. Ever her best defence in a situation she didn't know how to handle. The knowledge made him close his eyes, breathing evenly to control himself as he tucked in his vest.

They finished dressing in silence, their backs to each other as each gathered their thoughts.

Of course this was how this would turn out. Was she so foolish as to think that simply pulling him into her arms would somehow change things? But that hadn't been what it was about. She had _needed_ him, and he had needed her. So why was he withdrawing now?

It was better this way. The cold shoulder, the quiet stepping back. Talking about it would only make matters worse. Still worse if she looked at him like _that_ again. Her tenderness was more than he could stand, her perfect faith in him nigh on unbearable.

* * *

><p>They weren't lucky enough to find a decent shelter to rest in again. Nights were divided into shifts, with pairs taking it in turns to watch or sleep. Watching was boring job, with the actual appearance of anything threatening a rarity considering the thoroughness with which they swept every chamber and passageway they came across. She'd taken to using the time to read the book Isabella had given her before they left.<p>

It certainly seemed to be amusing enough. It was difficult not to watch her reading, sprawled on her stomach on a bedroll on the other side of the fire, sucking her fingertip absent-mindedly. Even when he could drag his eyes away from the sight, to try and force himself to sleep, the merest chuckle from her would rouse him, and despite the ache of his bones and the pounding of his heart sleep would simply never come.

"Ooh Varric," she purred, her voice hushed, "listen to this: 'He drew her close against his pounding heart, his eyes wild with desire," she paused, dropping her voice into a mockingly manly growl, "'I must have you Cheyenna, lest I go mad with lust.'"

Sitting on a rock beside her, facing out over the chamber, Varric chuckled throatily. "He wants her _now_?" he asked incredulously, "Aren't they locked up in that Chevalier's dungeon?"

She held the book up over her head. "Check it yourself if you don't believe me."

The dwarf smirked as he took it from her. "You just want to hear the dirty bits in my sexy voice," he said suggestively, as she rolled onto her back to look up at him, "Very well, I shall indulge you:" he scanned the page, his eyes lighting gleefully on the perfect line, "'She ripped at his torn breeches with her nails," he said dramatically, "'exposing the majesty of his proud purple warrior.'"

'_What manner of book is this?'_

It was all he could do to stop himself from bursting out laughing.

'_What is this warrior in his trousers? Why is it purple? Is it possessed?'_

He muffled his laughter with a corner of the blanket.

"His _what_?" she snorted, sitting up abruptly, "You're shitting me!"

Varric shrugged. "Check it yourself if you don't believe me."

"Isabela," she muttered, taking the book back from him, "your taste is dreadful! 'She moaned into the pillow...'"

"How do they even have a pillow?" Varric interrupted irritably, "They're locked in a Maker blasted dungeon!"

"Shh!" she hissed, barely able to restrain her giggles, "Don't interrupt, this is a good bit: 'She moaned into the pillow as he descended, tongue poking out from his mouth to savour her feminine juices.'"

"But," the dwarf exclaimed, his expression utterly disgusted, "they've been locked in there for two days, and they were running for a week before that. She'd be filthy!"

She ignored him, her voice purring around the words. "'As his tongue flicked against her sex she thrashed violently on the bed,'" she paused, frowning, "What bed? I thought it said they didn't have one..."

Varric reached down, plucking the book from her grasp. "Give it here," he cleared his throat, attempting a falsetto, "'Berantio! she wailed as her twitching lips danced over his skilful muscle, Oh my love!"

His voice dropped an octave as he continued, becoming deep and booming, "No my darling, he breathed hotly, rising to claim her mouth with his own, You must call me Eduardo.' What is this shit?" he said normally, looking at the cover, "_The Antivan Assassin._ A true masterpiece of originality."

She chuckled, falling back on the bedroll and stretching in a way that made his stomach twist itself into knots, arching her back off the bed. "That thing is possibly the funniest book I've ever read. And I've read a lot."

"True enough," the dwarf replied with amusement, "and my bookshelves bear the brunt of that."

"Don't flatter yourself, dwarf," she replied, shifting her hips to settle her back, "You should have seen our house in Lothering. Books were pretty much all that held up the roof."

A few minutes passed in silence, and Anders used the opportunity to turn his back to the others, hoping that he'd finally get the chance of some rest. It was not to be, however.

"So Hawke," Varric said eventually, his voice barely audible above the crackle and spit of the fire, "what's going on between you and Blondie?"

'Did he just? I am sleeping right _here_.'

'_You are _not_ sleeping._'

'The point carries.'

"What?" she asked, her voice little more than a whisper as she looked up at him.

"You heard me," he replied, nodding in the direction of the body on the other side of the fire, "What's going on?"

She stared at him in disbelief. "Nothing is going on," she hissed angrily, glancing back behind them at where Fenris also slept.

The dwarf wasn't to be dissuaded so easily. "But you want it to?"

She glared up at him, his eyes impassively boring into her own. She shook her head. "I don't have to answer that," she snapped back, irritably.

"No," he replied, an eyebrow raised in a humourless suggestion, "You _really_ don't."

"What is this?" she asked, scrambling to her feet as she struggled to keep her voice down, "What exactly have I done to deserve this? Am I supposed to pack up my heart, and not have any feelings just because it makes a better story?"

The dwarf shifted uneasily, seeing the fire in her eyes. "I didn't..."

"Didn't you?" she hissed, kicking the base of his rock with the toe of her boot, "This is my _life_ Varric. Not just some story you tell your willing audience down at the pub."

He shook his head, his voice rumbling and low. "I never said..."

"I'll say again: Didn't you?" she repeated, her hair shining in the firelight as it tumbled from its bonds, "I didn't come down here for you to judge me Varric. I came to make some gold and get out from the under the noses of people scrutinising my every move, and yet somehow, right now this doesn't feel any better. I'm going for a walk."

As she left, striding off into the darkness beyond the fire's comfort, Anders sat up, staring across the fire at the dwarf with a distinctly raised eyebrow. Varric seemed unsurprised.

"I deserved that," he muttered darkly.

"You know," Anders replied, glaring at him, "I rather think you did."

The dwarf chuckled humourlessly, "Are you going to beat me down for poking my nose in too?"

He shrugged. "I suppose that depends on whether you're going to start poking me," he glanced after her retreating form, hearing the echoes of grumpily dragged feet and muttered curses, "You should go after her, before something happens."

Grumbling, Varric nodded and shuffled off after their sulking friend. Figuring that he should make the most of the peace and quiet, Anders fiddled with his clothing bundle to make it a more comfortable pillow, and lay himself back with a long, drawn out yawn.

"You, mage," a voice muttered in the distinctive tones of a certain former slave, "are a fool."

He sighed. "You know what Fenris, I could ask you in what sense you mean that remark," he replied, letting his eyelids flutter closed, "but the truth is that I honestly don't care."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note: <strong>_I don't own anything. I just have the pleasure of scribbling it. Massive love to my reviewers and the excellent MaryJade, my Beta. Her story Heroine Rising is fantastic - and one of the more original takes on the standard relationships that I have seen so far. Check it out!__

_Also, my apologies for the delay in this update - family easters are MANIC._


	8. The Return

**_Author's Note:_**_ With the aid of another fantastic edit from my Beta MaryJade, I present to you another exciting instalment of Hindsight. We're on the verge of the first purely invented bit in the story in the next few chapters, and I'm getting really pumped! _

_Thank you to so many people for following my story! Please keep letting me know what you think!_

_Disclaimer: Dis stuff is no mine. KTHXBAI_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8: The Return<strong>

Leaning forward, Ariadne stretched her arms and shoulders carefully. "About a fortnight later," she yawned, "we found our way back to the camp Bartrand had abandoned."

Half-asleep beside her, Carver shook himself slightly. "Wait," he said groggily, pinching the brow of his nose. "You're going to skip forward? Just like that?"

She leant back against the wall, meeting his gaze resolutely. "Pretty much."

He frowned at her. "You're not going to..."

"What's the point?" she exclaimed irritably, offering her palms to the ceiling. "We spent weeks down there. We were cold, and dirty and thirsty. Despite everything Anders did the food was rotten, my armour was rotten, we stank and we ached. We thought we'd die down there, that in all honesty that we'd never see the surface again."

He saw the look her eyes, the shadows speaking more than her words ever could. "But you did," he said gently, covering her hand with his.

"But we did," she repeated, "eventually."

"We made it up to open air in the middle of the night," she said, drawing a deep breath as she remembered the moment, "and the stars were still too bright for our eyes. We were completely out of sync with the outside world, so we marched on until we saw the sun rising and made camp in a hollow in the woods. When we woke in the morning, we washed as best we could in the ice cold water, and began the three day march back to the city."

* * *

><p>Of course, Ariadne always preferred to downplay issues of personal danger. It was, in fact, bloody typical of her to leave out the one detail that played on Anders' mind more than any other about the whole blasted trip.<p>

Yes, being trapped in the Deep Roads had been awful, but, let's be honest: that was hardly unexpected. The Deep Roads and 'awful' were practically synonymous. In fact, he'd go as far as to say it was basically repetition to put the two words in one sentence. There was a word for that... what was it? Tautology.

Waking up in the open atmosphere was both dazzling and horrendously disorientating. The air in his nostrils was fresh and cold, and as he sat up the woman opposite him was wearing the same expression of amazement he felt creeping onto his own face. The light filtering down through the trees dappled over his hands and arms, and even though he was filthy dirty, he couldn't help but be mesmerised by the sight.

"Morning," Varric grunted, sitting up stiffly.

"Afternoon, you mean," she chuckled, stretching her arms over her head.

He glanced upwards, seeing the sun above them. "She's right," he croaked, and then paused, listening to the sounds of the woodland around them. "Is that..." he murmured, frowning slightly, "running water?"

Her eyes widened. "Varric!" she said, scrambling out of her bedroll at breakneck speed. "Get the pan!"

It was more than a little luck that found them standing at the edge of the pool in their nightclothes: two humans, a dwarf and a saucepan. A sort of half-arsed waterfall formed a large, dark pool surrounded by tall reeds.

"Is it clean?" she asked, looking at him hopefully.

He nodded, letting his senses stretch out into the water. "Seems to be," he said, smiling. "Although it's probably rather chilly."

The splashing, bubbling water rippled the surface invitingly.

"Sod it," she said, bending down and pulling off her twig and leaf-encrusted socks. He stood frowning at her for a moment until her hands darted to the hem of the shirt she slept in.

"What are you doing?" he asked, colour draining from his face as she pulled the shirt over her head, leaving her in her vest and smallclothes.

"I'm getting in," she said, carefully folding the socks together with her shirt. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

His eyes widened. "Are you going to..." he asked, as beside him Varric started following suit, pulling his shirt over his head.

"I'm not bathing in my smallclothes," she said, rolling her vest up to the underside of her breasts, "if that's what you're asking."

His sharp turn away made the dwarf chuckle deeply. "Don't worry Blondie," he smirked, carefully placing the pan on the edge of the bank as a loud splash and a stifled shriek informed him that Ariadne was in the water, "the water's cloudy enough. Your modesty will remain intact."

He didn't watch the dwarf strip, and he certainly didn't watch him getting into the water. He stood nervously on the bank looking at his socks for a good minute and a half until Ariadne threw some sort of pondweed at him and he decided that cleanliness meant more to him than potential embarrassment.

Luckily the water was way too cold for him to maintain even the slightest hint of arousal. "Oh Maker's bollocks!" he shouted as the bitter chill bit into his chest.

"It's certainly nippy enough," Varric agreed, treading water by the bank.

"After spending weeks sweating in that Thaig," Ariadne said, dunking her hair in the falls with a gasp, her creamy shoulders just visible over the water, "I've got to say I couldn't care less. Have you got any soap left Varric? My hair is disgusting."

"Should be a bar up in the pan," he replied. "I'd go myself but this is... a little deep for me."

He definitely didn't watch her swim past him. He _definitely_ didn't catch a glimpse of her arse in the murky water, and he definitely, definitely, definitely didn't get an erection at the sight of her back, glistening with water in the sunlight and just the tiniest hint of the side of her breast, as she reached out of the water to get the soap. He closed his eyes as she swam back past him, trying desperately to concentrate on the cold. Curse the human body's ability to adjust to different temperatures.

"Maker's ass," Varric growled, splashing slightly as he tried to keep afloat. "I need longer legs... or a raft."

Anders smiled wryly at the struggling dwarf. "Do you need a hand?" he asked eyebrow raised.

Varric chuckled. "No thank you Blondie," he replied, grappling with some weeds by the bank. "I can stay buoyant well enough without being handled by a naked man."

The healer was on the point of saying something rather suggestive when he was interrupted by a low, feminine moan.

"Oh sweet Andraste's fingers!" Ariadne groaned, working her hair into a lather, bubbles spilling down onto the surface of the water. "I can touch my _scalp_!"

"Don't go getting too enthusiastic with that soap Hawke," Varric warned, "other folks have dirt too."

She sighed heavily. "Alright," she said, disappearing under the water momentarily, emerging with her ruby hair sleek and darkened by the water. She breezed past him again, her shoulder almost brushing against his arm. "There," she said, placing the soap in Varric's palm, "I'll go and get the tea on."

He was very deliberately not looking as she scrambled, one could only assume from the noises, onto the bank. He continued not to look as he heard the sounds of water tumbling from flesh and onto the ground. He still wasn't looking when she poked him in the back of the head with a stick.

"Interesting plant, Anders?" she teased, leaning forward from the bank with the aforementioned stick in hand. She'd thrown on her oversized shirt again, but the way it hung off her meant that her could see deep into her décolletage.

"Very," he muttered, turning a decided shade of pink as he avoided her gaze.

"Don't worry so much," she giggled, poking the stick in his ear. "As a medical man I'm sure it's nothing you haven't seen before."

In another life he'd have taken the end of that stick and yanked it, and her with it, back into the blasted pool. He'd have pulled her into his arms and kissed and licked and sucked on that throat and collarbones of hers until even Varric felt awkward. He'd slip his hands around those buttocks of hers and press her sweet little groin up tight against his aching cock. He'd send shivers of electricity down her spine until she dragged him out of the pool, into some secluded area where he'd lie her down on that ugly baggy shirt of hers and make love to her until she sodding _wailed_.

But as it was he mumbled something incoherent until she blew a raspberry at him and went to fill the pan.

He tried not to think about the way the water on her skin made the shirt cling to her backside as she began the climb back up to their camp. He tried not to think about the possibility that Fenris would be watching her dress. He tried not to think about watching her dress himself. In fact he tried so hard not to think about her in any way that he forgot to think about his other not-so-little issue until he was standing on the bank drying his neck on his vest when Varric looked at him with a distinctly raised eyebrow.

"I'm going to go out on a limb here," the dwarf said with a chuckle, "and guess that the impressive display you're putting on there isn't on my account."

* * *

><p>She was dressed by the time they returned to camp, much to Anders' relief. The sight of her in her armour seemed to rearrange his brain somewhat. Or maybe it was the smell of the tea.<p>

Varric was shortly behind him, and he paused over Fenris' bedroll with a chuckle. "Is that elf still sleeping?"

"Sound as a babe," Anders teased, reaching into his pack for his cleanest smalls, and pulling them on under his shirt.

Clearly Ariadne was still in a decidedly playful mood. "I can think of one way to wake him up," she said, holding up the pan of remaining water with a smirk.

"Ariadne," Anders cautioned, watching sidelong as she moved towards the sleeping elf, "I'm not sure that's a good..."

The noise of trickling water was almost immediately drowned out by a roar of rage as the elf lunged from his sleep. The pan of water went flying as elf and girl crashed to the ground.

She tried to laugh it off later, of course, but some things just weren't funny. Elf thumbprint-sized bruises on your perfect, delicate throat fell decidedly into that category. The same went for a knee rammed so hard into your solar plexus that you hyperventilated for nearly fifteen minutes afterwards. In fact pretty much any situation in which a childish prank resulted in an attack so ferocious that it took two fully grown, and embarrassingly wet and underdressed, men to drag your attacker off you was about as unfunny as things could get.

Of course, Varric wasn't actually a man, but the point stood.

That he could turn so violent at an innocent splash of cold water to the face was more proof, as if Anders really needed it, that Fenris was a dangerous and volatile addition to their party. He could only hope that now, with the expedition out of the way, Ariadne would see sense and finally tell the elf to keep his savage, broody distance.

* * *

><p>The journey back to the city was straightforward enough, and they arrived back at the gates in Hightown six weeks to the day after they originally departed. It was a bright day, but even with gold in their purses and the chance of a hot bath, Ariadne's smile was far from reaching her eyes. He saw her unease as Varric reminded her how rich she'd soon be, that near-wince when he mentioned the estate. Despite being tired and dirty, sore and hungry, he had no intention of leaving her until he knew what was wrong.<p>

Varric was enthusiastic enough for both of them as they got back into the city, going on about gold and profit and luxuries. She knew that she should be glad to be home, that she was aching for a mug of tea and a hot bath and a different bloody book, but she couldn't quite want it enough to just head for Lowtown. Soon enough they went their different ways: Varric to go inform the Merchant's Guild about what had happened, and Fenris to his mansion. She would normally have walked with Anders, and she wasn't particularly surprised to find him lingering once the others were out of sight.

"What's wrong?" he asked, deciding that directness was the best policy.

She avoided his gaze, dusting something invisible off the front of her worn armour. "Nothing's wrong."

He stepped towards her, cocking his head in order to catch her eye. "You're lying," he said, smiling.

She scowled at him. "Mind reading is against the law, Anders," she muttered irritably, "you know that."

He chuckled, leaning against the wall beside her. "So just tell me what's wrong," he replied, eyes twinkling. "You wouldn't want me getting into trouble."

Ariadne rolled her eyes. "I just... I don't feel ready to go home yet," she sighed, leaning back. "I need to be... outside."

He looked up at the sky, above them. After so many weeks underground it was almost too beautiful. "I know what you mean," he murmured.

She smiled softly. "Walk with me?" she asked, looking at his upturned face. "I just... want some air."

"Of course," he replied, bracing his hand against the wall to push himself back to his feet. "Ow."

He turned his palm up, a jagged piece of masonry had cut open the base of his thumb. He was moving automatically to begin healing himself when Ariadne stopped him.

"Here," she said, taking his hand gently, "let me."

Concentrating carefully, blue light emanating from her fingertips drew the wound closed. He didn't need to watch to know that it was happening, and the truth was that it was far more pleasant to see the look of concentration on her face, and the smile as she succeeded.

"See," she said brightly, looking up at him. "Not even a mark this time."

He smiled affectionately in return, waggling his fingers as she let go of his hand. "You're getting pretty good at this," he replied, in a tone that made her feel decidedly fuzzy.

"I've had a good teacher," she said, beaming at him, "and I know as well as you do how much easier it is to heal someone else."

Turning, she started heading away down a side passage, hardly seeming to care where she was going. He followed, sensing her need to be moving, to stay free for as long as possible.

"You're a good pupil," he said warmly, bumping his shoulder against hers. "You should spend some time with me down at the clinic."

"Really?" she asked, surprised. "You think so?"

"I do," he said, smiling at the light in her eyes. "It would be good for you to practice on things that aren't broken skin and bones."

"I'd like that," she said thoughtfully, "Really I would."

She looked up at him, and suddenly burst into a fit of giggles.

"What?" he asked, feeling desperately self-conscious.

"It's just..." she gasped, trying to restrain her chuckles. "Your nose. It's gone pink."

Fingers flew up to press against the now-sore skin. "Again?" he groaned, letting the healing magic soothe the inflamed flesh. "That's the fourth time this morning."

She grinned. "You always did burn like a baby," she teased, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

"But it's worse now," he replied, feeling the sting subside, "All that bloody time in the dark." He looked up, wincing in the glare of the early Drakonis sunshine. "I hate the sun," he grumbled, pouting slightly.

"Clearly it hates you too," she quipped.

They were walking down a narrow alleyway that ran down the back of several mansions. High iron fences backed by neatly trimmed gardens towered over them. One of the gardens, however was wild and overgrown, and he paused, scrutinising the crest detail on the back gate. "The famous Amell estate," he exclaimed, calling after her as she carried on ahead of him. "Not too shabby."

"Don't remind me," she sighed, turning and walking back towards him. "This place is half the reason I don't want to go home."

He frowned, leaning against the low stone wall the fence rose out of. "You don't want to move up in the world?" he asked. "Even when you've earned it?"

She raised her eyebrows at him, leaning against the opposite wall. "Have I earned it?" she asked earnestly. "Even if I have, I don't see how plonking myself right in front of the Viscount's nose is going to keep me safe from Meredith. At best I'll have to live like a bloody hermit."

He glanced back over his shoulder at the sprawling, overgrown mess. "A hermit with a nice rose garden, by the looks of it," he replied.

"Wonderful," she exclaimed, raising her hands and letting them fall loudly into her lap. "Just what I need: a title, a rose garden. Before you know it I'll be wearing a frock."

He smiled at her frustration. "Would that be such a terrible thing?"

She paused, a mischievous look appearing in her eyes. "You can't climb fences in frocks," she said, before launching herself across the alleyway.

"What do you..." he watched, dumbstruck as she seized hold of the railings and pulled herself up on the wall. He scrambled to his feet. "Ariadne what are you doing?"

She paused, looking down at him with one leg halfway up the iron railings. "Uh... climbing a fence?" she said. "Come on."

In a flash she had disappeared over and into the garden. Glancing down the path to make sure no-one could see him, he followed, careful to ensure the sharp tips of the bars didn't hook themselves into his coat. He dropped down on the other side, and found her wandering over a weedy lawn. "This is a bad idea," he grumbled. "I thought you said there were slavers."

"We cleared them out months ago," she said matter-of-factly, scanning the hedges. "The place is totally boarded up. Hmm... It is a nice rose garden, if a little overgrown."

He stepped up behind her, putting a firm hand on her shoulder. "We can't stay here," he said firmly.

She turned to him with those almond-shaped eyes glittering with mischief. "I have no intention of staying here," she said playfully. "I just wanted a look around. Oooh look! A bench."

"Ariadne," he growled, following her as she went to go and perch herself on a small arbour seat.

"Just sit yourself Anders," she said, indicating the space beside her. "Take a look at my dull, dreary future."

He took a moment to take in the boarded up building in front of him, the crumbling masonry and sagging roof. He shook his head. "You'll be comfortable," he said gently. "Your money, your title will keep you safe. That's important."

She sighed in exasperation. "And I'll have to play the simpering noble to get it, I suppose," she grumbled. "Wear frocks and court simpletons. Ingratiate myself." She shook her head angrily. "This isn't what I want, Anders."

"Then what is?" he asked, watching her carefully.

"Freedom," she said plainly. "To live and laugh on my own terms. To put icicles down the backs of silly templars without someone trying to lock me up for it."

He chuckled, remembering times when he might have said the same thing. "Just little things then," he teased, nudging at her ribs with his elbow. "Nothing spectacular."

"You're in no position to mock," she replied, shoving him back lightly. "You of all people know what I mean. If I weren't a mage right now, this wouldn't be an issue. I would tell my mother that nobility was _her_ life, but that I should be free to act according to my own wishes. But as it is I'm trapped." She sighed heavily. "You're right. This is the only way I can be safe."

"Safe in comfort," he reminded her, "in wealth. These are things to be grateful for."

"But I don't want them," she snapped back, getting to her feet, and pacing. "I _never_ wanted them. I'm a Hawke, not an Amell. I just want to be myself."

He leant back in his seat, smirking slightly as the thought occurred to him. "You'll have a library," he said.

It took a second for her to register what he had said. "And since when does having money mean I stop having the right to choose... A library?" she said, stopping in her tracks, her frown relaxing. "I suppose I will."

"I knew that would get your attention," he said, chuckling slightly.

The slightest hint of happiness crept into her eyes. "I could keep my books," she said quietly, almost to herself. "I wouldn't have to _leave_ them."

It was all he could do to stop himself from laughing at how easy she was to please. "Maybe being a noble won't be so bad after all, hmm?"

She looked up at him, her eyes full of enthusiasm. "Maybe you're right," she said, stepping towards him. "Do you think there really is a library?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Even if there isn't," he said, smiling at the light in her face, "you could build one."

The possibility lit her from within, splitting her face into a broad grin. "I should go home," she said, her eyes dancing brightly. "Maybe we could move in tomorrow."

He laughed, following her back to the fence. "It's seems unlikely," he said, squeezing her shoulder, "but you probably should go home."

* * *

><p>"Do you want me to stop?" she asked, feeling her brother stiffen slightly beside her, "Maybe you should get some rest."<p>

The fire crackled at her feet, sparks dancing as she looked anywhere other than at the man beside her. Moments lengthened into minutes, but she waited nonetheless.

"No," Carver said eventually, his voice quiet, but firm, "I should know."

* * *

><p>As he flung the door to Varric's rooms open, his breath tore itself in ragged gasps from his throat. "I just heard," he panted, leaning against the doorframe for support. "Where is she?"<p>

"I'm right here, Anders," said a quiet, grumpy voice from within the high-backed chair in front of him. "I wish everyone would stop asking that like I've jumped off the bloody dock."

A brief glance told him that he'd been the last to arrive on the scene. Even Fenris had dragged himself down from Hightown, and the seven of them... no, _six_ of them now ranged themselves around the table in various states of concern.

"Someone should get word back to your mother," Aveline said, leaning forward onto the table at her side, "she's tearing her hair out."

Ariadne growled, pushing her chair back and getting to her feet. She hadn't even taken the time to change her clothes. "Why did everyone assume I'd go and do something stupid?" she exclaimed angrily. "Of course I was going down the pub." Varric and Isabela moved to say something, but she silenced them with a gesture. "Please, everyone," she said, her voice unnervingly calm. "Nobody died, I'm rich beyond my wildest _whatevers_, and we already knew that my brother is an arse. So let's not talk about it while I get completely shitfaced."

She tossed back her drink and dropped back into her chair, reaching for another cup in the middle of the table.

"I'll drink to that," Varric drawled, raising his glass. Isabela mimicked his gesture.

Aveline sighed, picking a cup from the tray in front of Ariadne and raising it. "I always did say he was a bit of a tit," she muttered, before knocking it back.

He moved around the table carefully, trying to find a free seat where he could easily talk to her. She wasn't looking at him as he drew opposite. She hadn't cried. This was a bad sign.

"Set a spell and catch your breath Blondie," Varric said, reaching out to pat him on the arm. "Aveline, I'll get Norah to send word to Gamlen's."

He drew up a chair next to the dwarf, and reached for a cup. Maker's breath what was this stuff? The merest sniff of it was enough to set his nostrils on fire.

"Hawke," Isabela said, leaning forward over the table, "just one quick question?"

Ariadne scowled, but nodded as she necked another shot.

"I'm assuming that _this_ counts as a disaster?" the pirate asked, her expression hopeful.

Glass connected with table in a resounding _thunk_. "It does, Isabela," the woman replied firmly, her voice hoarse from the alcohol. "It definitely does."

* * *

><p>It wasn't until half an hour or so later, when Aveline and Merrill were reminiscing about Ferelden, Isabela was trying to show Fenris a card trick (that mysteriously involved more cleavage than cards) and Varric was talking to Norah that Anders saw his opportunity to talk.<p>

"Ariadne, I..."

"Anders," she interrupted, giving him the first direct look since he'd arrived, "I've already said that I don't want to talk about it. That includes you." She pointed a slightly wavering finger at his face. "You are _not_ an exception."

He counted the array of empty cups in front of her for the umpteenth time. "Maybe you should slow down a bit," he said hopefully.

She snorted, putting her cup down with a loud bang. "Don't worry your pretty little head 'Blondie'," she said, making quotation marks in the air. "I already told you. I'm not about to do anything stupid."

Before he could say anything sounds of a disturbance echoed up into the dwarf's chamber from the inn below. He could hear a voice, a young man calling out at the bar.

"Bandits out in the street! They're looting Lirene's! Someone needs to come and help."

His eyes shot to Ariadne's face, but the thought had clearly already occurred to her. "On second thoughts," she said, downing her drink with a wicked glint in her eye, "maybe I will go and do something stupid!"

With that she turned on her heels and stepped quickly out of the room. Anders scrambled to his feet.

"Hawke!" Varric called, pushing his chair backwards and into Anders' way. "Andraste's ass, somebody go and stop that girl before she blasts those sonsuvbitches into the void!"

Barging his way to the forefront of the group as all six of them made their way to the door, Anders followed her as quickly as he could.

Even had he not known where Lirene's shop was, he could have followed the noise. He found her at the top of the steps raining fire down from the sky, scattering and dazing the bandits as she braced herself for another cast.

"Hawke!" he shouted over the roaring of the flames. "For the Maker's sake don't do anything rash!"

"Go away Anders," she yelled, barely looking back at his as she flung out a wave of freezing energy. "I'm busy!"

With the rest of the party behind him, he watched in wonder as she froze, blasted and slashed the bandits into submission, until she was surrounded by a sea of corpses. Twenty, maybe even thirty men lay at her feet, but she didn't seem ready to relent. Screaming, she raised her arms to draw down the fire once more. He had to stop her.

"They're already dead," he called out, stepping towards her over the body at his feet. "You can't kill them any more than you already have!"

She turned back to him, laughing bitterly as her eyes welled. "Oh I can try," she snarled, "just you watch!"

He held his arms open, approaching slowly. The flames falling lit her hair from behind like a blood red halo. "Hawke," he said, dropping his voice, "you know the Veil is thin here. The demons can hear you in the Fade. You _have_ to calm down."

She turned her back on him, raising her arms to channel the falling flames into a swirling frenzy of dancing sparks. "Let them hear!" she roared, her voice cracking with emotion. "I'll kill them too!"

He was behind her now, putting a firm hand down on her shoulder as he glanced back at the others, seeing the fear and the anger in their faces, Fenris' hand on the hilt of his sword. "You know that's not possible," he said, raising his voice above the tempest, and so that they could hear him. "Stop this Hawke. Don't tempt them!"

She shrugged him off, roaring with rage as the fire intensified, now swirling around them both. He could feel the heat of the flames closing in on them, and hear the shouts of their companions asking to know what they should do. Reaching for her, he spun her around and crushed her against his chest as the sparks singed his robes, stung at his skin. Pressing his lips to her ear as the flames drew closer he whispered, "Ariadne. This won't bring him back."

With a howl of rage and pain the flames around them eased. She clung to him, sobbing desperately as he held her close, sighing in relief.

"He hates me," she choked out, tears streaming down her face as the sobs wracked her chest. "He hates me Anders. Why else would he do this?"

Watching as their companions relaxed, turning to disperse the crowd that had formed behind them he shushed her, stroking her hair. "Because he's a fool," he said gently, rocking her slightly in his embrace. "Nothing more than a stupid kid with more rage than sense."

She laughed bitterly, feeling her tears soak into feathers as her body began to tremble. "Sounds like someone I know."

Anders shook his head, pulling back from her to look her in the eyes. Red-rimmed and smudged with soot and weeks of Deep Roads dirt as she was, the need he had to comfort her, to soothe the pain and worry from her face was like a vice around his heart. "Carver made his choice, Ariadne," he said, his voice unexpectedly croaky, "Don't let him force yours."

* * *

><p>"I need some fresh air," Carver whispered, his voice hoarse.<p>

On her feet on the other side of the fire, she clasped her hands together to stop them trembling.

"I'm not sure that there's much that I can do about that," she half mumbled.

Behind her, Anders' sleeping figure on the ledge moved slightly, uttering a strangled gasp and making her jump half out of her skin. But he wasn't waking, he was just shifting slightly, and now wasn't the time to be focusing on him.

Moving towards her brother she summoned her growing energy without thinking, soothing pain and discomfort as she knelt as his feet.

Deciding that, all things considered, one whole leg was better than two partially broken ones, she focussed on his right tibia, drawing fragments and shards together as swiftly as she could muster. He gasped at the sensation, the sharp movement of shivered bone against wounded flesh as she pieced him back together. His eyes watered as he watched her, face intent and impassive, the concentration of a healer. The magic flowed, and she pushed it deep into his bones until it ebbed, and finally sputtered out.

Trembling violently now, she braced herself with a hand on the ground as she sat back on her haunches, forcing herself to look up into his face.

"There's still a crack running up the length of your tibia," she said, ignoring the tremor in her voice as she tried to keep her gaze level, "but if I work carefully I should get you up on that leg before nightfall."

"What time is it now?" he panted, trying to regain control of his senses against the storm of pain.

She glanced up the passageway. "From the light I'd guess about midday," she said, getting back to her feet. "I'll have to go out at some point, and you really should try to rest."

"Sister."

She tried to ignore him, tried to distract herself by putting more logs on the fire.

"Ariadne."

She turned to him, lowering herself gently to sit before him, looking into the worn and waxy face.

"We should talk about this," he said simply, his eyes set in that firm way that reminded her so much of her father.

She sighed. "It's unnecessary," Carver stirred himself to speak but she stopped him. "Listen to me Carver," she said firmly. "We made decisions based on the circumstances we were forced into and the people we both were. Those people, that rash boy and that angry girl, they've been gone for a long time. You stood by me when you had every reason not to, and as far as I'm concerned, that more or less c any bad blood that might linger between us." She paused, drawing in a deep breath. "I almost made a mistake. I was angry and tired, and I reacted badly. He stopped me from doing anything I might regret."

He laughed dryly. "You make it sound so simple."

She leant forward, taking his hand with her still-shaking own. "It is simple," she said, rubbing her fingers over his knuckles, thick like their father's. "You are my brother, and you stood by me despite everything that went between us. I forgive you," she said, her eyes dropping slightly, "and hopefully, even when you know everything, you'll be able to forgive me."

* * *

><p>Leaving Aveline and the others to do what they could to make light of the situation, he shepherded Ariadne off in the direction of her house as quickly as he could. Thanks to Varric's 'careful wording', by morning the whole of Lowtown would be talking about how that Hawke kid had put down a bunch of 'arsonists' who were attacking Lirene's shop.<p>

Her hands were trembling, though she couldn't tell if she was cold. He'd put his coat around her shoulders again, its warm weight like an embrace. Her throat was tight, her tongue thick in her mouth, her heart heavy.

"I killed those people," she said quietly, after what seemed the longest time. "I killed all of them."

He watched her closely, seeing the dim blankness in her eyes. "You've killed a lot of people," he said gently, slipping his hand around hers (Maker it felt cold). "It says more about this town than it does about you."

She shook her head, stopping and turning to face him at the bottom of the steps to Gamlen's. "But I hurt them," she said, her eyes shining with pain as she looked up. "Not because of who they were, but because of what I was feeling."

He reached up, brushing the creeping tear away with his thumb. "I understand what you mean," he replied, feeling her tremble under his hand. "It wasn't the action, it was the intention."

"I wanted to hurt them," she whispered, half choked by the thought. "I wanted them to feel what I was feeling. Even though it had nothing to do with them."

He sighed, slipping his hand around to the back of her head and drawing him to his chest. "We're none of us perfect, Ariadne," he murmured, resting his cheek against her head. "We make mistakes."

She moved stiffly, reaching her arms around his back. "My father would be ashamed of me," she said, her voice raw.

He held her close, her cheek pressed into his collarbone as she stifled her sobs. "Your father would understand that you're in pain," he said soothingly, stroking her back with the one hand under the coat.

"It doesn't justify my intentions," she said angrily, pulling back from him, "my _actions_."

"No it doesn't," he replied, looking at her tenderly as he brushed her hair back from her face, "but that doesn't mean that you can't learn from this."

She laughed, a hollow, agonizing sound. "I wish I knew how," she said bitterly.

Her despondency tugged at him, the loss and fear and anger in those eyes. "These things don't happen in an instant," he said softly, his hand resting on her shoulder. "Take some time. Think about what your father would want you to do, if it helps." He paused, seeing the shift in her expression, that tiny mote of potential. "Think about what you want to take from this. How you want to grow."

His words echoed in her head like the Chantry bell.

'How I want to grow.'

She looked at him, the reassuring tenderness in his eyes, the belief. She could grow, through this and not just past it, if she gave herself the chance. Stepping back from him, she swung the coat from her shoulders and pressed it into his hands, her heart stirring in her chest.

"I will," she said, focusing on Anders with an expression that he found he did not recognise. "Thank you, Anders."

He could see that she wanted to go. "I'll come and see you tomorrow," he said, bowing his head slightly, "if that's alright?"

She nodded to him, her eyes still holding that strange look. "Always," she said softly.

Looking down at him from the bottom step, Ariadne's blood was whispering something extraordinary in her ears. Whatever else he was, whatever else may hold him back from her, the truth was that the man before her understood her better than anyone since her father. If he could look past her destruction, her violence and rage, her mistakes what right did she have to judge him for his?

She said her goodnights, giving him a small smile as she headed for the house.

Of course she never had judged him, not in that sense, and she'd never denied to herself that she cared about him, that he got under her skin. She'd slept at his side, wanted to kiss him countless times, to be close to him, to cast everything else aside and just reach out. To touch, and not expect to be touched in return. To give without the need for exchange, the expectation of return. To give everything until there seemed to be nothing left, knowing that in truth there would always be more. It was only now that she understood why.

A dual-edged revelation. She wanted this. To stand, and stand beside him. To be utterly open to him, and to fight with every breath she had for the world that they deserved.

She loved him. The thought gave her purpose and the strength to open the door. It would be the thing that she held on to, taking strength in the thing that she had feared for so long.

If she was capable of feeling this way, of loving someone, that meant something. It meant that she could survive. No matter what came her way.

For some people, love is a cataclysm, a thunderbolt that brings the world they have known crashing down about their ears. For Ariadne Hawke, it was a ray of light in the darkness, a foundation on which, for better or worse, she could begin to build the rest of her life.


	9. Anticipation

**Chapter 9: Anticipation**

"It was..." he whispered, his voice echoing strangely in the dim space, "that was me?"

Sitting opposite him at the table, in a dim and faded version of the Hanged Man, Bethany smiled. "You're going to have to be a bit clearer," she said teasingly. "Just because I'm inside a mind doesn't mean I can _read_ them."

He pressed his palms into the sockets of his eyes with a deep groan. "That light," he murmured, pain welling up within him. "That _expression_." He sighed deeply. "I never even realised..."

"That that was when she fell in love with you?" she interjected carefully.

"I'd thought..." he said, eyes shifting as he opened them, "At least I'd hoped..." he trailed off, pressing his fingertips into his forehead. "Maker's breath this is awful."

The girl frowned in surprise. "Why?" she asked, confused. "Her love for you changed her. It gave her the will to fight."

He shook his head angrily. "I knew she cared about me, that she wanted me, but... I tortured her for years," he groaned. "If I'd only known I'd have..."

She smiled, reaching out to put her hand on his arm. "But you _didn't_ know."

He rested his forehead in his hands, eyes burning. "Why didn't she tell me?" he whispered, half-choked. "She told me everything, why not this?"

The hand on his arm squeezed gently. "I suspect that you know," Bethany said.

"She knew I'd torment myself," he murmured, tears falling and ghosting into nothingness before his very eyes. "She knew that I'd feel... like this."

He looked up at his guide, the look in her eyes both infinitely comforting and so familiar that it deepened the ache. "I suspect that she did," the girl said, her brown eyes full of sympathy.

A single sob drew his breath in a ragged gasp, and he wiped the silvery, vanishing tears away with the back of a hand. "So everything she did," he said quietly, his chest tightening with every word. "For the cause, the city we lived in... She did it all for me."

But Bethany shook her head. "Not for you," she said carefully, sitting back in her chair, "_because_ of you, at least in a sense."

He frowned at her. "How do you mean?"

Slender fingertips worried at the red handkerchief around her neck. "You once told Ariadne that you'd never let yourself love anyone," she said softly, her eyes meeting his levelly, "but deep down you always knew that you were capable of it. You knew that when love truly happened to you..."

"That I would be unable to deny it," he interjected, as something began to dawn on him, "at least to myself."

The girl nodded. "Ariadne wasn't like that," she replied. "Deep down she always believed that she was incapable of love."

"But she loved _you_," he interrupted, confused. "She loved Carver and your mother."

"It wasn't the same thing," she said gently, fiddling with the silken red knot just beneath her ear as her eyes drifted, darkening. "She loved her family because it was all she ever knew. She fought for _them_ because the fighting was the very air she breathed." She looked up, those warm brown eyes thoughtful and tender. "Wanting something for herself," she said, smiling slightly. "Wanting you, and a world in which she would be free to love you, changed everything."

His breath caught in his chest as the knowledge slid into place. His eyes widened. "So that's what she meant," he murmured, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. "That's what she meant that afternoon in Hightown." He smiled, the smallest of laughs escaping his lips as the relief swept over him. "I understand."

With a rush as of a gust of wind through fallen leaves, a shape shimmered into life behind Bethany's shoulder. Scrambling out of his seat, over the table and towards it, it seemed to retreat from him as he approached. Silvery and ghostly, the large shape towered over him, always just beyond his grasp.

"Is that..." he whispered, feeling Bethany standing beside him, "Is that a door?"

The faint outlines of panelling and carving glistened eerily in the candle-light, their translucency showing crisply against the faded, shifting room around them.

"Not yet," she said, barely audible over the faint humming coming from the ghostly door. "In time it will be."

He reached forward, marvelling at the way it seemed to retreat from his hand. "Where does it lead to?" he asked, amber eyes full of wonder.

"Something else."

For once, despite not getting a satisfactory answer, he smiled. "Very well, Miss Enigmatical Hawke," he said, taking Bethany's hand, "Let us proceed."

* * *

><p>It was quiet in the slums this morning, with everyone and his wife's auntie's second cousin down at the market buying up the new season's grain and flour. Now, for the first time, they had coin enough to simply buy bread from the baker every morning. It felt good to be back in Kirkwall, with the sun softly shining down through the sea haze and that slight scent of limestone in the dust. Lowtown wasn't home, by any stretch of the imagination, but it was something like it, at least for now.<p>

When she heard his distinctive, booted footstep on the stairs the next morning, she wondered why she didn't feel more nervous.

The truth was that she hadn't really slept. Sober before she had even set foot in the door, she had spent the greater part of the night with her mother, alternating between talking and listening. With Gamlen sleeping in the next room, she'd let her mother wash the dirt from her hair, soaking herself in the tiny tub while Leandra marvelled at the sheer quantity of gold she'd been able to carry back with her. She had taken the time to apologize for her behaviour before the expedition, and although mother had tried to dismiss it as something she hadn't even noticed, their relief was clearly shared.

Leandra had fallen asleep a few hours before sunrise, but had woken before 10 o'clock with the almost obsessive urge to clean the house. Getting back into her dirty armour hadn't exactly felt pleasant, but under the circumstances, being busy was better than sitting and doing nothing. Deep down, she knew that she was waiting for him to appear, but as she let herself be bossed about, beating rugs and scrubbing floorboards, it was easy enough to disappear into the work and just not think.

When he came, if he was even able to come, he'd know. There was simply no point in trying to hide anything from him, even if she'd wanted to. Whether or not he realised that he was the cause of it almost didn't matter, he'd see the difference, and for better or worse, he would react.

She wasn't nervous because the man coming towards her was the same man who'd left her the night before. A man who understood her, and who cared for her a great deal. Even if he didn't, if he _couldn't_ feel the same, she would have him in her life. Simply being close to someone who meant so much to her was more than she had ever dared to hope for before.

The door to Gamlen's house was open as Anders approached it, and the sounds of a broom met his ears as he found Hawke oiling the hinges. She looked up at him, her face fresh and washed despite the fact that she was still wearing her armour, her hair shining in the morning sunlight. "Anders," she said, smiling sweetly though her eyes were tired, "I didn't think you'd come."

"You don't think I've got time for my favourite fellow apostate?" he teased, watching as she wiped the grease from her tapered fingers.

She blushed slightly. "It's not that," she said, turning and putting the oil down on the table, "I just mean you must be busy back at the clinic."

"I am," he said, following her in to the dingy, cramped house, "but that doesn't mean I can't make time for my friend."

Her smile made his stomach flip. There was something different about it, something like that look he had seen in her eyes the night before. "Thank you," she said, getting the last of the oil from her fingers. Sounds of crashing and noises of frustration carried over from the next room, "Uhh... we should go out outside," she said, herding him towards the door, "I think mother needs some peace."

They sat together at the bottom of the steps up to Gamlen's house. "Your mother is taking it hard," he said quietly, watching her untie her hair. The movements, so familiar, seemed guided by a different energy. The same fingers, the same hair and the same motions, normally made in haste, with scrappy, vague inattention, were now soft and slow, a careful turning and loosening, smoothing rather than raking. There was something mesmerising about it.

"She's every right to," she sighed, running her fingers over her scalp, "He's gone against everything she ever taught him."

"I see she hasn't gotten you into a frock yet," he teased, picking at a trailing thread on the edge of her padding.

She laughed quietly, letting her hand slip down to the back of her neck. "The truth is I don't have any other clothes," she said wearily, "Normally I just sit around in my underthings while she washes them. She's not in the mood today." She sighed, stretching her arms and legs out in front of her. "I might let her take me out shopping later, to cheer her up."

He frowned at her vague expression of disgust, tilting his head. "Don't girls normally love shopping?" he asked, a smile turning the corner of his mouth.

She raised an eyebrow. "Have I ever been a _normal_ girl?" she asked wryly.

"I'm not sure I can answer that without causing some grave offence," he replied, chuckling.

"True enough," she said, smiling as she nudged him gently in the ribs. She thought for a moment, and then shrugged. "Mother's always enjoyed that sort of thing. It'll be good to get her out of the house."

After last night, Anders wondered what exactly he'd expected to find when he came here. The girl he had left at these very steps had been hurting, tormenting herself over her actions and yet, here she was. Tired, yes, emotionally and physically, but calm. The restlessness, the nervous energy that bubbled and overflowed within her seemed to have stilled, letting something shine through. Not something new, because the truth was that she'd always been beautiful, even if she didn't seem to realise it (or perhaps _because_ she didn't), but something deeper, more essentially _her_ than the nervous jokes and the awkwardness had ever been. The softness in those smiles, that light in her eyes that he'd never seen.

"What about you," he asked, clearing his throat slightly. "How are you feeling?"

"I don't know," she sighed, shrugging slightly. "Confused? Fearful? He says he won't betray me to them, but I'm not even sure whether that means anything." She drew a deep breath."As if Meredith won't investigate us just because we're his family."

He nodded. He'd thought as much himself. "All the more reason for you to follow up on your mother's plans," he said firmly.

"You're right," she said, nodding, "and believe me I intend to." She glanced back up the stairs for a moment, listening for her mother. He caught her drift and got to his feet, glancing round the corner and spying some empty crates in the alley. He extended his hand.

She let him help her to her feet even though it was unnecessary, following him around the corner where she perched herself on the edge of a crate. She gave herself a moment, feeling his eyes on her, knowing he was waiting for her to spill. "I just..." she said quietly, "I suppose what I feel most is disbelief." She swallowed, frowning. "That he could claim to know the meaning of family," she said, feeling her throat constricting, "even as he betrays everything father ever stood for, betrays Bethany and me..."

He watched her face darken, heard the tightness in her voice. Sitting beside her, he covered her hand with his own. "In all likelihood he isn't thinking of it like that," he said, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze.

She shook her head. "He's not a child, Anders," she replied, sadness tinged with anger. "He grew up in my father's house as much as I did." She looked up at him, the anger burning deep and low within her. "The man he was named after was a Templar who _helped_ mages," she said, drawing herself up straight, "but that is _not_ Carver's intention."

She sighed deeply, rubbing her forehead with her knuckles. "He's done this in the full knowledge of what it will come to mean," she said, finally.

He frowned at that, confusion knitting his fair brows. "What do you mean?" he asked uncertainly.

She cast her eyes floor-wards, her voice even as she said, very quietly, "He's set himself against me. He's chosen to fight for the other side."

His eyes widened. 'Does she mean what I think she means?'

The excitement rising in his chest was not his own. _'She speaks the truth.'_

He felt uneasy. 'She's talking about Carver. Her _brother_.'

'_The boy who chose to be a Templar,' _the reply came._ 'Can it be that she finally understands?'_

'She always understood. She's fought for mages her whole life.'

'_But now she understands why she must.'_

Frowning, mind in a tumult, he looked down at his hands upturned in his lap. "We aren't at war yet, Ariadne," he said carefully.

She looked at him, those sweet blue eyes keen and bright. "Aren't we?" she asked, searching his face for some sign of his thinking. "You've seen what the Templars do in this city. Just because we don't have the strength or the numbers to fight back make doesn't make their violence any less."

She slipped herself off the crate, taking a few steps forward before turning back to him, her expression purposeful. "I've had a long time to think about this," she said, the vivid energy in her eyes making his heart skip. "Ever since I was a child. This city..." She paused, summoning the words. "Anders, I can't think of another reason why the Maker would have brought me here."

The earnestness of her voice, her face, as she looked at him began to work on him and the hope building inside him was not simply Justice's own. "You need to be careful," he said quietly, glancing down the alley. "You're no good to anyone trapped in the Gallows."

"Believe me," she said with a derisive laugh. "It would take nothing short of a _miracle_ to make me step foot in that place again."

She paused, steeling herself. "You have to understand," she said, swallowing her nerves and stepping forward to take his hand in both of her own, "I'd always believed that I would live life like my father did: running from backwater to backwater, fearful and hunted, but then I came here, found friends who knew who I was and didn't care." She paused, drawing a breath as she met his eyes. "I met you."

He tried to ignore that look, tried to pretend he didn't see _exactly _what she was trying to tell him. He shook his head, standing up and moving past her, trying to give himself a little distance while he processed the information."Me?" he said, rubbing his neck nervously, "I'm not really the best example."

But she wasn't about to let him off so easily. "Aren't you?" she said, leaning back against the crate as she watched him closely. "I'm not running again. _You_ showed me that I could be something more."

She paused, catching his eye as he glanced back over his shoulder. "Living openly in this city will be a start," she said firmly, holding his gaze, "but I'll do whatever it takes. This isn't just about me."

"I..." he stammered, dropping his head and chafing the stubble on his jawline, "I don't know what to say. This seems sudden."

She nodded, her expression wavering. "Maybe it does," she replied, her hands twisting together as she lowered her gaze. She drew a deep breath. "I have a family," she said slowly, "and I've worked hard to protect them, to build something solid for them to stand on, but that wasn't good enough for Carver."

She shook her head, her nostrils flaring as she stood once more. "Well," she said forcefully, a sneer twisting at the corner of her mouth, "he's made his choice. He walked away from me, and for the first time in my life I don't _owe_ him something." She paused, gathering her resolve again. "I've done what was necessary," she said, approaching him. "Perhaps now I can do something for myself: start standing up for the things that I believe in, for the things that I want."

And there it was again. That look. That utterly unequivocal look.

'_She wants us._'

'She wants _me_.'

She saw the widening of his eyes, knew that he'd understood at least part of what she was trying to tell him. Stopping just short of him, she swallowed her nerves, and pressed on. "Anders, you know what it is like to spend your whole life looking over your shoulder, even when there is no sane reason why we should," she said, trying to show him her determination, hoping that he would see, that he would understand what she was trying to tell him. "I'm going to stand my ground, look them in the eyes. Change things for the better."

He couldn't help himself, he was closing the space between them, taking her hands and holding them. "You have no idea what it means to me," he said quietly, unable to look at her, his pulse roaring in his ears, "to hear you say that."

"I think I do," she said, a small squeeze from her fingertips making him look up into those soft blue eyes, that gentle, hopeful smile, "I know how it feels when I hear you say the same thing."

Standing there so very nearly in his arms, her face upturned to him and that look, that wanting, needing look in those beautiful eyes. She always made it seem so easy, feel so easy. Too easy just make the movement that would change everything.

He couldn't. He mustn't.

'Oh Maker I want to.'

He stepped back with a gasping breath. "I... Ariadne..." he stumbled, shaking his head, "This just keeps getting worse and worse. I have to stop."

Her brow furrowed. "I don't understand," she said, warily, uncertain whether to pursue him or to stand her ground.

He leant himself back against the alley wall, covering his face with his hands. "Every time I'm with you I find myself saying things," he groaned, kicking his heel back against the wall in frustration. "Acting differently."

Concern darted into her eyes at that, and she stepped closer as he glanced up at her. "Is it... Justice?" she asked, apprehensively.

He sighed deeply. "No," he replied sadly, forcing himself to look at her. "No you misunderstand me. I've been..." he struggled for words, "_flirting_ with you."

Flirting was an understatement. A terrible understatement, and he could see that its implications cut her.

"I had noticed," she replied, stiffening slightly. "I'm not a _complete_ child."

His words were inadequate, but he had to make her understand. "I'm being serious," he said, trying to shut out the desire to ease that wounded look in her eyes. "It has to stop."

Battered boots scuffed the dirt. "Why?"she asked sharply, refusing to give up without a fight,."In case you haven't noticed, I've been flirting right back."

She fixed him with her piercing gaze, and he flinched. "Yes," he said quietly, shifting uneasily against the rough hewn stone, "yes I've noticed. I've enjoyed it."

Something hopeful flickered into her expression, and her frown softened. "Then surely there's no problem," she said softly, venturing a step closer. "We've been flirting... with each other."

"You make it sound so simple," he murmured, watching her draw nearer with an undeniable thrill of anticipation. He wanted her approach, wanted to drop his guard and pull her into the kind of kiss that would tell her everything he felt for her.

But he couldn't.

"No," he said roughly, holding up his hands to stop her. "I can't do this. I don't want to hurt you."

She shook her head, stepping forward so that his palms rested against her arms. "You would never hurt me," she said firmly, unflinchingly.

The softness of her skin under his palms felt too delicate, the touch too intimate. He rotated his hands and gripped her arms, keeping the distance between them. He dared the eyes that threatened to melt his willpower, setting his jaw and summoning his strength. "I'm not the kind of person that you want to be with," he said resolutely.

"Isn't that for me to decide?" she said fiercely, her body tensing as her extraordinary eyes pinned him against the wall.

He pushed her to one side, striding past her towards the crates. "You saw what I did in the Chantry," he said, almost angrily. "That's who I am."

Staring at the space he'd left behind, she felt desperation rising in her gut like a clawing animal. "Don't say that," she whispered, her voice half-choked as she drew her arms tightly around herself, squeezing her eyes shut. "We both know that's not true."

"Isn't it?" he asked bitterly, pressing his palms into the rough surface of the crate, trying to block out the lingering tingle of her skin. "I've killed people Ariadne."

Her azure eyes flew open in anger. Pivoting on the spot she grabbed him roughly by the arm, turning him to face her. "So have I," she snapped, the emotion thickening her voice, as her eyes stung. "If I remember rightly you told me that that didn't matter."

"It doesn't for you," he murmured, his resolve faltering at the sight of her: her auburn tresses framing her face, the anger curling her rosy lips, the threat of tears in her eyes.

She swallowed hard, the softening in his face so painfully inviting. "And are you so different?" she whispered, loosening her grasp until her hand was just resting on his arm. She drew a ragged breath, watching as her thumb just brushed at the crook of his elbow. "Whatever you may think, Anders, you are _not _Justice," she said, looking up into his eyes, as her heart throbbed in her chest. "You are more."

His hands seemed to move of their own accord, mirroring her gesture as he held her arms by the elbows, drawing her close and pushing her away in the same gesture. "And being with you makes me want to believe that," he sighed, lowering his head with a slight shake. "I'm just not the man I was a year ago."

Gentle movements broke his grip as hands reached up, cupping his face and raising his eyes to her own. "I never knew that man, Anders," she said, the quaver in her voice belying the boldness of her gesture. "It's _you_ that I..." she faltered, her eyes flickering momentarily away, "that I _want_."

'Is she... Is she trying to say that she... No. She can't possibly.'

He took her hands by the wrists, pulling them down to just rest between their chests. "You can't mean that, Ariadne," he said sadly, his eyes darkening as he felt the tremor of her pulse against his thumbs. She moved to speak, struggled slightly against his grip but he silenced her, shaking his head. "Please," he begged, willing her to understand. "Whatever you may think, I'll break your heart, and that would kill me as surely as the Templars."

Her lip trembled, and her eyes watered, but she kept them in check as she whispered, "Then at least I'll know I have a heart to be broken."

She took back her hands, stepping back from him gently, not meeting his gaze. "I won't push you," she said quietly. "But please, don't make this decision now."

This time it was her silencing him as he made to object, raising her hand as she gathered her thoughts. It was an unfamiliarly graceful gesture, and the pensive look on her face was beautiful in a way that he had not expected.

She drew her breath in slowly, resting her hand lightly against his chest. "I know you probably think you've thought about this over and over," she said sincerely, her thumb worrying at the chain between his pauldrons as she looked up into his warm, honey-toned eyes, "but for my sake just take some time to consider... what is possible, rather than just what is impossible."

Unable to speak, he nodded his assent.

The removal of her hand left an ache in his chest, a need to catch her, to stop her as she withdrew. "I should get back to my mother," she said, turning to make her way back towards Gamlen's house, her tone calm and her posture relaxed as he followed her. "Will I see you tomorrow?"

He tried to glimpse her face as he caught up with her, to read her in her expression what feelings she was leaving him with.

"I hope so," he replied, his voice hoarse as she mounted the bottom step.

She turned on her heels, facing him with a cool, professional demeanour. "Good," she said briskly, "Varric should have at least _some_ of your share by then. Perhaps we should meet in Hightown, so that I can sign it over to you? I'll be there for most of the day."

He frowned, unsettled by the sudden shift in her behaviour. "Alright," he said uneasily, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "I should be able to take a break at say... midday? We could meet in the Merchant's guild at noon."

She nodded. "That sounds perfect," she said, with a smile that didn't touch her eyes. "Thank you, Anders."

She held out her hand to him with a slight bow of the head. A formal gesture, and its intention was clear: 'If this is what you want, I will step back from you. I will not force you into anything that you don't want.'

He hadn't realized that he was in love until that moment. Her offering, made without reservation for her own feelings, showed a maturity and strength that he had only guessed at before. The woman before him was becoming something beautiful, someone capable of the extraordinary. It was as intoxicating as the way she moved, as the sound of her voice, as the scent of her hair.

He'd wanted her for months, the ache in his chest a constant reminder of his desire and his loneliness when she wasn't with him. Her presence in his life had become like the first feeling of sunlight after a week in the dark belly of the Undercity: necessary, completely and utterly. Just the sight of her brought life back into his veins, and her memory was all that sustained him through his lonely nights.

But the fact that it was love, that he had fallen for this extraordinary woman in a way that he couldn't possibly deny, finally struck him as she offered him her retreat. The hand before him wavered slightly, and he did the only thing he could think of.

She was on the point of withdrawing her hand when he took it, so gently, and turned her knuckles up to his lips. The feel of the kiss froze her, and for a moment she could only think about the strangeness of stubble before she realized that he was speaking.

"I'll try and have an answer for you," he said, meeting her eyes over her hand, "tomorrow."

"Alright," she replied quietly, the faintest of blushes staining her cheeks.

The walk back up the steps seemed to take the longest time. Ariadne could hear his booted footsteps retreating behind her, and it took everything she had left in her not to look back at him. It was only as she closed the door behind her, that she allowed herself the faintest of smiles. "Mother?" she called, popping her head around the door of the second room, where Leandra was hard at work scrubbing the worn floorboards, "How do you feel about some shopping?"

* * *

><p>Anders found himself unusually nervous as he headed up to Hightown that morning. Even though he kept telling himself that he was going to let her down gently, or as gently as he could manage, it didn't stop him from fussing more about his hair, spending longer than usual shaving and even taking a brush to the feathers on his coat. It also didn't stop him from chewing on some mint leaves as he left the clinic, or stopping at a glass goods stall in the marketplace to just double check that he hadn't somehow made himself look like a complete arse. Not to mention that it did nothing to slow his heart rate, or stop his stomach from doing a somersault the moment he caught a glimpse of that dark ruby hair.<p>

He found her leaning against a pillar in the Merchant's Guild. With her armour doubtless in the wash, or perhaps even the rubbish, she was wearing a plain silk shirt with some new, beige coloured breeches and a tan leather belt. She clearly felt uncomfortable without her armour on, if he could judge anything by the way she kept fiddling with the sleeves. She'd worn her hair down, and he could tell she'd taken the chance to give it, and no doubt the rest of herself, a thorough soak. While the previous day she had still seemed worn and tired, he could practically feel the glow radiating off her as he approached, his heart in his mouth. He was definitely going to let her down. Definitely.

Ariadne couldn't believe mother had made her throw away her armour. It was still perfectly serviceable. So what if the stubborn understains were all that was holding it together? It was comfy. If that woman thought she was going to get her into a dress she was very much mistaken. Still, there was something kind of liberating about being out unarmed, and the shirt really was soft. She kind of just wanted to spend her time rubbing her sleeves against her skin. Even her underthings felt silky. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to have a bit of coin, after all.

She'd been waiting for him for ten minutes or so, though it felt a good deal longer. Deep down she knew that the most likely outcome for the coming conversation was that he'd tell her, as politely as he could, to back off and leave him the void alone. Not that it did anything to stop her hoping. Hoping that he'd sweep her up in his arms and just kiss her like he should have done months ago. Hoping that he'd tell her she wasn't alone in feeling this way. Hoping that he'd drag her back to that clinic of his and rip all her lovely new clothes right off.

"Afternoon," he said quietly, right beside her.

"Anders!" she exclaimed, half-jumping out of her skin as he interrupted her thoughts. She saw the smirk tweaking the corner of his mouth and glared at him. "It's rude to sneak up on people," she muttered, blushing slightly.

The smirk deepened, and he leant forward, placing his hand against the pillar just over her shoulder. "I'm sorry if I startled you," he said cheekily.

'_This behaviour was not our intention.'_

'Whatever happened to letting her down gently?'

But the colour deepening in her cheeks was just so appealing, not to mention that tiniest hint of the blush on her throat. Up close as he was now, Anders could see that the shirt was made of silk, it had that faintest of translucencies, just enough to show the outline of the vest she wore beneath. He'd been right about the bathing too, her sweet scent curled into his nostrils, laced with lavender and beeswax.

Ariadne had not expected this level of proximity. She could see from a small nick on his neck that he'd just finished shaving, and the temptation to just reach up and heal it was almost more than she could bear. But the fact remained that they were in the Merchant's Guild, and she needed to be respected here. She couldn't just go around touching apostates in front of all the dwarves. It would be unseemly, even if he was utterly gorgeous.

She cleared her throat nervously, stepping slightly back. "The guild clerk was called away for an hour on business," she said, trying not to hear the slightly higher pitch of her voice. "You'll have to wait if you want me to sign anything."

He shrugged slightly, letting his arm drop. "It doesn't matter," he said casually, smiling warmly. "I'm not in a hurry to collect my share. I'm just glad to see you looking so well."

She smiled as that, but turned and headed back down the steps towards the market. Anders followed her, his head buzzing with thoughts:

'Come on Anders, you can still save this. You just need to take a deep breath and just keep your head out of your trousers.

'Of course, I'd much rather be in _her _trousers_._'

'_There does not appear to be much room.'_

'_You_ shouldn't be looking. Maker's breath but going down these stairs is doing lovely things to her chest... Awkward silence! Say something you fool.'

"How's your mother?" he blurted out suddenly.

She didn't appear to notice, smiling sideways at him as they reached the bottom of the steps. "Better this morning, I think," she said warmly, heading over to the weapons stand. "I gave her a sleeping draught last night, I think the rest did her good."

He nodded, watching her lean forward to examine a silver dagger. "When's her appointment with the viscount?"

"Soon, I think," she said, glancing back at him over her shoulder. "She mentioned something about needing to buy a new blouse in the next couple of days. Oh!" she exclaimed, taking him by the hand and dragging him over to a stall. "Fruit! But they don't have any pears."

He chuckled at her disappointment. "A crime," he declared teasingly. "How dare pears be out of season?"

She narrowed her azure eyes. "Don't mock me boy," she growled, pointing her finger at his nose. "I know you like them as much as I do."

"I do," he purred, taking her accusatory hand and lacing his fingers between her own, "Especially when they're bought for me by beautiful women."

She winced slightly, colour creeping into her cheeks. "Anders," she said warily, trying to withdraw her hand. "We should... talk about this."

He halted abruptly, her unease cutting through his instincts in a way that his thoughts could not. "Yes," he said, nodding, "of course."

The market bustled around them as she slipped her fingers from his grasp and guided him over to the relative quiet of the colonnades. "It's not like I mind," she said, a tinge of sadness tweaking at her mouth and eyes, "you _know _that I don't mind. It's just that I..." she dropped her gaze, shifting uneasily on her feet, "need to know where I stand."

He sighed, leaning back against a pillar. "I know what I said Ariadne," he replied, closing his eyes momentarily. "I've tried so hard, tried pushing you away, but I just don't know how to stop myself when I'm around you," he shook his head. "I wish I did."

When he opened his eyes she was standing far closer than he'd expected, looking up into his face. "And I'm glad that you don't," she said softly, a slight flush creeping into her cheeks, "Not to mention that I wish you wouldn't try."

Despite himself, he found his fingertips rising to brush her fringe back from her eyes, lingering on the soft skin of her high cheekbones. Her mouth, that soft bud of pink, curled slightly at the touch. His mind was full of her, of her voice, her face and the rich scent of her beeswax soap. "I should be better than this," he murmured.

She withdrew from him slightly, frowning. "Is that Anders or Justice talking?" she asked.

"That's an unfair question," he replied, his heart sinking, "and you know it."

"Is it?" she asked, her eyes flashing slightly. "What exactly is it that you're trying to be better than, Anders? A man?" She stepped back towards him, so closing the space between them that he could feel her pulse matching up against his own. Her voice was low, almost husky as she looked at him. "Because despite what happened to you, you still are one, or so it seems to me."

He leant back, pressing himself back against the cool stone. "I am," he said, his voice wavering as his eyes were caught by her unflinching gaze, "I am when I'm with you."

Ariadne wondered if he could feel the fluttering of her nerves in her fingers as she moved to put her hand on his neck. Wondered if he could feel her heartbeat racing, skipping as their eyes connected. "And isn't that as important as being an ideal?" she asked, hoping he wouldn't hear the cracking of her voice, "What's the point in fighting for a freedom you don't even know how to feel?"

Anders reached forward, slipping an arm around her waist (was it really always this slim?) and drawing her closer while silently cursing himself for wearing such a bloody thick coat all the time. "You think I don't feel it?" he whispered, eyes drinking in every feature of her face as it drew nearer. "Ariadne it's driving me mad."

She could feel his breath on her lips, his hand splayed against her back to draw her near. He smelt like elfroot potion and mint, and as Ariadne closed her eyes she forced herself to stop, to let him make the final move.

As her eyelids flickered shut, Anders saw again the way her eyelashes glinted with that deep ruby red. He didn't hesitate, tilting his head and pressing his mouth to hers.

At the tingle of mint and the firm pressure of flesh against her lips Ariadne's eyes flew open in surprise, but his hand on her back kept her close, and the peacefulness of his expression undid any doubts she might have had. Relaxing, she let her hands feel the back of his neck, and her lips begin to move.

Anders could feel her bindings through the silk of her shirt, and wondered briefly if the sweating of his palms would turn the blouse transparent in the shape of his hand. He could feel her lips, as soft as he had imagined, pressed against his own, and he held himself there firmly, holding her tight against him until she was ready to respond. She did, her lips shifting and brushing against his own, pushing forward and parting to make that unique 'kissing' sound. He groaned softly, his hand on her cheek slipping back to tangle fingertips into her hair. He felt her slight shiver against him at the touch, moved his mouth to worry at her tender lower lip as she made the first, very faintest of sweeps with her tongue. The contact was exhilarating, its message of desire sending shockwaves deep into his groin. For once Justice had nothing to add.

"Messere!" A sharp voice called loudly, echoing through the courtyard, "Messere Anders!"

They broke apart, hearts thudding and faces flushed as the child ran towards them. "Teller?" Anders asked, frowning through his deep blushes. "What is it?"

The boy, Teller, looked as though he'd been running for his life, his scarlet cheeks glowing fiercely against his flaming shock of red hair. "Those folks with the fever ser," he panted, bent double and wheezing for breath, "It's the white waters. Guards are calling it an outbreak."

"Cholera?" she gasped, her stomach plummeting, "In Darktown?"

The urchin nodded, standing upright to look at Anders. "Chantry sent down medics to confirm it," he said, face flooded with fear and desperation, "They say there'll be a quarantine."

He nodded. "I'll go at once," he said, turning to her, his eyes wide and fearful, "Ariadne I..."

She fumbled for her purse, pressing it into his hands and holding them tightly. "Take this," she said urgently. "It's all the gold I have. I'll go to Elegant – see what potions I can get on credit." She reached forward, her hand cupping his face as she kissed the corner of his mouth. "I'll follow you," she whispered. "Now go!"

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Thanks to so many people for reading and the exceptional MaryJade for her pointers. I feel pretty pleased with this chapter, but I'd still absolutely **love** to hear from you so please **review**!


	10. The Broken Seal

_**A/N:** Apologies for the delay - I think MaryJade might have been abducted by aliens! _

_In other news - I really want to thank all the new subscribers and reviewers. I love hearing what you think.  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10: The Broken Seal<strong>

The chill creeping into his bones as he recognized his surroundings was _painfully_ familiar. He was leaning up against the wall in the corner, looking at the room from the spot where it seemed biggest, cramped and dark as it was.

"Do you know what this place is, oh guide of mine?" he asked, trying to mask the strangling fear with humour.

She wasn't looking at him, sitting opposite him on the bed in the far corner. "It's a dungeon," she said quietly.

He stretched himself, pushing the scream back down within him. "But it's a very _particular_ dungeon, Bethany," he said, mockingly, putting his hands back behind his head. "It's a _Circle_ dungeon, the kind of place you and your big sister used to cry yourselves to sleep in fear of."

The girl looked up, seeing the cruel smirk twisting his features as he tried to displace his fear onto her. "I'm not Bethany, Anders," she said, her soft voice trembling slightly. _"I_ didn't..."

"But Bethany did," he interrupted, dismissing her protests easily as he stepped towards her. "Bethany used to cry and cry, and Ariadne would hold her."

He sat down beside her, that teasing tone in his voice. "They'd pretend that it wasn't possible, that their father was too powerful, that he would protect them. Even when he told them he could not," he said, putting his arm around her in an overly tight embrace. "Ariadne would tell stories to her sister, softly whispered words of comfort, about the spirit who would protect them. He was little more than another version of the father they revered as a god, a champion of truth, a saviour of virtue. A spirit from the Fade who would save them from the _brand_."

The guide shivered despite herself at his words. "The White Knight," she whispered.

"Indeed," he said sharply, getting to his feet and crossing the room in two brisk strides. "Such an _elaborate_ fantasy: those stories, the pictures hidden beneath your beds, little fragments of pebbles, feathers and small bones." He turned, looking down at her. "Talismans against the ever-stalking evil."

"The evil of a place like this," she replied bleakly, nodding her head.

The sight of her, so small and so vulnerable, softened his malice, stirred up by lingering fear. He sat down next to her again.

"I spent a year in here once," he said, one knee up on the pallet so that he was facing her. "Solitary confinement. Not a word, or a kind glance from anyone. Food and buckets passed in through the flap in the door, empty plates and shit passed out."

He could hear her moving, readying herself to speak, to tell him how sorry she was at what he'd been through, but his eye was caught by something just over her shoulder. "This wall is wrong," he said, interrupting.

She frowned, following his gaze to the hazy, bare wall. "What?"

He stood up, reaching out to touch the incoherent stone. He felt nothing beneath his fingers. "There were burn marks on this wall," he said softly. "Many, many small burns." He looked down at her, saw the confusion on her pretty features. "I made them," he insisted, running fingertips over the places they should be and feeling _nothing_. "I remember them as clear as day. Why aren't they here?"

Bethany shook her head. "Everything is indistinct," she said.

He looked around him, seeing again the fuzziness of the confined, murky space, realizing that it was only his familiarity that was giving it any sense of order at all. "But it shouldn't be, should it?" he asked, looking back into her face. "Memories are crisp in the Fade. In the visions I can see everything, even things I never saw myself. From the scents and tastes to the very textures of the walls. I remember this place, why can't I see it properly now?"

She hesitated, her expression almost alarmed in its confusion. "I... I don't know."

He frowned at her. "You don't know?" he said, disbelievingly. "You mean you're not about to say: 'You will understand, given time.'"

But she didn't even laugh at his mockery. "No," she said fearfully, looking around her with wide eyes as the walls shifted slightly. "No, I mean _I don't know_. I didn't even realise until you said it."

The world was falling down again, the dim room moving to be replaced by a vision of startling clarity. "That's an interesting development," he said.

* * *

><p>The sob that escaped her lips as she closed the door behind her was near enough to a howl that a distinction seemed unnecessary. The shack was empty, and she was glad of it as she threw herself down in a chair at the desk. Brushing the tears from her eyes she reached for her quill, trying to hold herself together as she wrote.<p>

_Dear Anders,_

Inadequate, but what good was a letter that didn't address its recipient?

_Dear Anders,_

_I was too late._

A blot blossomed from the full stop, drawing a ragged breath through her lips. She pressed her fingertips to them, seeking to remember the comfort of his kiss.

_The quarantine has sealed all the entrances to Darktown. Even the exits the Guard doesn't know about are blocked._

Her eyes stung as she recalled the smug look on Athenril's face: 'A small price to pay to keep the paths secure. We can't afford to jeopardise our whole system of operations.' Never mind that she had _gold_, and still less that she was _desperate_ (a fact which, if anything, seemed to make the spiteful bitch even more smug).

_I can't find a way past. _

Again, it was all that she could do to stifle a sob.

_I was able to pay a friend to bring you the potions I bought in the market. Whether they made it to you in one piece is another matter. I will begin work on more immediately, and attempt to secure them safe passage to the clinic._

A 'friend' with a heart of ice and a smirk that made you want to punch her in the face until she bled. Ariadne had taken every potion Elegant had in her possession, and the ingredients she'd ordered would keep her busy for a week at least. The thought of the blonde apothecary made her heart sink, and her quill trembled as she continued.

_Elegant tells me that the last time such an outbreak struck the Undercity the passages were closed up for a year. I can only pray that this won't be the case now._

She shuddered, her nib hovering over the page, the tip of the feather brushing lightly against her nose. She could still feel it, that white hot tingle on the edges of her sense, the first brush of his rawest magic, his aura, against hers. The first spark of his arousal, a connection begging to be forged. It had been beautiful, far more so than anything she had ever known.

But she couldn't tell him. She couldn't tell him any of it, and the knowledge twisted inside her like a knife.

Athenril would read this letter, that much was inevitable. That any hint of a stronger connection between her and the man she had called her friend would only make things more difficult for the both of them was an absolute. She could not say it. She could only hope that he already knew.

_All that I have is at your disposal. _

She wrote slowly, praying that he would see, that he would know that she meant 'All that I _am'_.

_Whatever it is that you need, I will get to you. _

'I will get to you, Anders. I swear it on everything that I hold dear.'

_No matter what it takes._

'No matter what it takes.'

_May the Maker watch over you,_

'May he bring you back to me.'

_Ariadne_

She blew a flame from her fingertip to melt the wax onto the paper, sealing it there with a breath of ice that shaped the red surface into a star. Drying her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt, she gathered the gold that she owed to Elegant, and headed back out of the door.

She had work to do.

* * *

><p>"Are you alright?" Carver asked, squeezing her shoulder slightly.<p>

She drew a ragged breath, feeling the stone press deep against her back. "Yes," she said, wiping her eyes with the back of a hand, "I'm fine. It's just amazing how much this still hurts. It's exhausting."

He smiled kindly, pulling her closer into his embrace. "Take your time," he said gently.

* * *

><p>The potions at his feet were evidence enough. She hadn't made it through.<p>

In the chaos of the first few hours of the quarantine, it was easy enough to ignore: to just use the vials and bottles without considering the crates, without thinking of where her hands hand been, of that moment when she'd been parted from them, and forced to send them on alone. He used the potions and poultices as if they were water, and by the time night fell in the Undercity, two of the seven crates were already gone.

Twenty-five beds. A further fourteen sufferers in their homes. Seven corpses already in the mining tunnels. Seven lives already lost.

This would only be the beginning.

With barely four months worth of experience under their belts, his helpers were exhausted by the time they got all of their patients to sleep. He sent most of them home, promising to send word for them if anything changed, but Perrin, as always, lingered.

With her tangle of dirty red hair and her wrists that looked like they'd snap in a stiff breeze, Perrin was an unlikely candidate for a nurse. Despite all expectations, however, the fifteen-year-old girl had proven to be a bit of a natural, with the patience of a saint and a truly uncanny ability to get her patients to admit the causes of their troubles. Anders couldn't count the number of times that those wide, earth brown eyes had pried confessions of extraordinary stupidity, or Isabela-esque behaviour from even the most unwilling of their visitors. Today she'd taken it upon herself to tell the relatives of the dying of the most likely outcome, giving the healer the time he needed to press on and save the lives of those that he could.

"You should get some sleep too, Perrin," he said, as she closed the door behind the others. "I'll need you back here in the morning."

"I have to wait for Teller, ser," she said quietly, leaning back against the frame of the door.

She didn't _have_ to wait for her brother at all, but the nine-year-old boy was better known in the Undercity because of his work as a messenger. Tonight of all nights, it didn't do to be walking through the tunnels alone. Especially when you were a skinny girl who might have snapped like a twig.

He nodded, trying to get a note of comfort into his tired smile. "Of course," he said. "I'm sure he won't be long."

He headed over to the corner of the clinic he kept reserved for himself, drawing screens around the bed, table and washstand that he called his own. She helped him, moving around the patients' beds with an ease that spoke of her familiarity, her sense of belonging in the space. "Are you still living in the Ferelden camp?" he asked, indicating a chair for her to sit in as he shrugged off his coat.

"We were trying to move before you went away, ser," she replied, sitting awkwardly, and keeping one eye on the door, "but there's just no room about what with all these refugees.

He spread the coat out carefully over his pallet - the clinic was definitely going to need some more blankets. Rummaging through his pack, which he'd barely had a moment to open, he drew out a bottle with some slender, dried leaves.

Spotting her curious look, he smiled. "Don't worry," he said, "I'm not planning on sleeping. These leaves contain a restorative."

The pot on the rim of the brazier was already simmering as he moved it into the heart of the coals, taking a leaf from his bottle and placing it into the cup. This particular variety of tea leaf had one of the highest concentrations of the invigorating agent that he'd encountered, and the Warden Commander had recommended it to him herself. He watched as the water began to stir into its frenzy, the hiss of the fire mingling with twenty-five sleeping breaths.

"I've been meaning to thank you," he said quietly, glancing back at her over his shoulder, "If you hadn't told your brother I'd gone to Hightown I might never have made it here before the quarantine."

She nodded slightly, her gaze still trained firmly on the door. "I doubt many people would have been thanking me for that, ser," she replied, a slight smile lighting her eyes.

When the water came to the boil he poured some into his mug and a second, and took the pot off the heat, moving to sit opposite to Perrin, on the edge of his pallet.

"Now," he said, placing their cups between them on the ground, indicating the steaming water, "do you remember what I told you?"

Her eyes shifted from the door onto his face, a look of concentration flittering across her wan features. "Unless I've seen it being boiled," she said, repeating the refrain by heart, "we only drink the water you give us here."

He smiled, loosening the lace in his hair so that he could re-tie it. "That's right," he replied warmly. "Especially now." He yawned slightly, fumbling with the worn leather tie. "Cholera attacks your intestines," he continued, tracing a weaving path over his belly with the tip of his finger, "the tubes that your food and water go through..."

"The sausagey-looking bits?" she asked, clearly curious.

Repressing the shiver which came from wondering just _how_ a girl that young knew what intestines looked like, he nodded. "Yes," he said seriously, "the sausage-looking bits. If that's _where_ these infections attack, it makes sense that the seeds of that infection pass in with your food or water."

"But people cook their food," she replied quickly, understanding his point.

"Exactly," he said, "and half the time people don't think to cook their water. Even when they're getting it out of the dirt." He bent down, picking up the earthenware cups by their cooling rims. "You drink the water here," he said, holding out her mug of water, "or you see it boiling before you do."

"I understand, ser," she said, taking her cup gingerly and cooling the surface of the liquid with her breath. "I don't want us to get sick."

He mimicked her action, pursing his lips and blowing the head of steam from his tea. "You're a good girl," he said kindly, thinking of the five gold pieces in his pocket. "I'm sorry I didn't have any coppers for you all today."

She shrugged, tucking a scrap of hair back behind her ear. "In all fairness, ser," she replied, eyes darting to a patient who turned in his fitful sleep, "those folks brought more bread here with them than all of us could eat together. I've stuck some in my bag for Teller already." She pointed at a rough woollen sack by the door.

"Do you have a cloth in there?" he asked, getting to his feet and picking up one of the empty bottles from the crates. "I'll give you some more water for the night."

"Thank you, ser," she said, nodding as she got quickly to her feet. As he bent over the bottle he heard the distinctive creak of the door, and couldn't help the tiny jolt of hope that lifted his eyes. The crop of rusty hair that appeared in the frame was more of a wrench that he expected. He dropped his gaze as the girl sprinted between the beds. "Teller!"

But the boy, both to his sister's and Anders' surprise, pushed past her into the enclosed space, arm outstretched. "Message for you, ser," he breathed, dropping into the empty chair as Anders closed his fingers around the folded parchment, his face disbelieving.

"Thank you Teller," he murmured, unable to bring himself to look at the paper in his hand.

"You were gone for ages," Perrin hissed angrily as she stood over him. "What were you thinking?"

"It was busy out," he retorted, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back a grubby hand. "Loads of people needed messages."

"There are other messengers," she snapped back, rubbing her bare arms. "You should have come back here hours ago." Her irritable tone was belied by her obvious agitation, and the worry framing her young face.

"Come off it Perrin," he grumbled, glaring up her with his own brown eyes. "We need the coin."

Sensing an angry and potentially loud reply from his young assistant, Anders moved to hand the girl the bottle he'd been filling. "You're both safe," he said peaceably. "That's what matters."

She grabbed a fistful of her skirts to take the bottle by the neck as he ushered them towards the doors. "Come in a bit later than usual tomorrow, Perrin," he said quietly, putting a hand on her shoulder as they weaved their way between the beds. "I'll need to start working out some shifts."

"Alright, ser," she replied, as he opened the door for them. "You know where we are if you need us."

"Of course," he said, flashing a warm smile. "Goodnight, both of you."

"Goodnight, ser."

As they headed for the staircase he turned the paper over, thumb slipping automatically between the folds.

The seal was already broken.

His eyes widened. The quarantine had barely been in place for twelve hours and their messages were already being intercepted? Could Meredith have moved that quickly?

"Teller?" he called out, unable to mask his alarm.

Wide, sallow eyes looked at him in confusion. "Yes, ser?"

He held the paper up. "Who gave you this letter?" he asked, as calmly as he could, even as his heart pounded a tattoo in his chest.

"Some bloke up at the Slums Stair, ser," Teller replied swiftly. "One of the smugglers."

Relief swept through him. "One of Athenril's men?"

The boy nodded. "I think so, ser."

He smiled, turning to close the door. "Thank you Teller."

He pushed the door closed behind him, lowering the latch carefully to avoid disturbing anyone.

'Athenril.' The relief was fleeting even as it was sweet.

He moved slowly between the beds, scanning the faces of his sleeping patients as the room thrummed with the sounds of crackling braziers and irregular breathing.

If Athenril was barricading the Slums Stair, then there was little doubt that she was in charge of keeping the black side of the quarantine. She wasn't the Knight-Commander, but she was a close second in terms of potential problems.

With a last glance around the room he retreated behind the screens, shrugging his shirt over his head as he approached the washstand. Forcing his eyes away from the paper on the table beside him he washed his face, neck and arms in the cooling water. The cloth was rough against his skin, the slight rasp enough to distract him as he soaped himself thoroughly in the purified water.

The job complete, he towelled himself down slowly, draping the worn material over his shoulders as he took the paper again, sitting himself on the edge of his bed. He thumbed the broken seal.

'_She would have known that this would be read.'_

'I know.'

'_She will be unable to say anything that you have not already surmised.'_

'I know.'

Drawing a steadying breath, he slipped his thumb under the flap, and opened the paper out.

_Dear Anders,_

_I was too late._

He'd never seen her handwriting before, but he could see that she'd been trembling as she wrote: the careful loops and elegant flourishes finished with slipping tails and scrappy dots. Her words were almost meaningless, every one of them little more than a marker for the words she couldn't dare say.

_All that I have is at your disposal. _

The slight darkening of 'have' told him that she had hesitated, that her ink had dried on her nib as she paused, wanting to write something else. All that I _want_? All that I _need_?

_Whatever it is that you need, I will get to you. _

Those last five words, etched into the paper with a heavy hand. A sign of intent.

_No matter what it takes._

As his eyes scanned to the last line he saw the watermark, a smudge over the name of the Maker. He brushed it with his thumbtip.

It was wet.

He frowned, looking down at the inky water streaking its way down his upturned thumb.

Pat.

He looked down at the paper, saw the curled letters of her name bleeding out over the creamy paper. Dumbfounded, he brushed his eyelid with the tips of his fingers. The dampness they discovered was all the explanation that he needed.

He folded the paper, resting his elbow against his thigh as he leaned forward. The hand that covered his mouth and chin was no comfort, and the tightness building in his chest was rising steadily, threatening to consume.

A quarantine, a ban placed in haste and repented at leisure. A necessary evil that would take months, if not years, to be lifted. A barrier held in place by both law and lawless, to protect the rest of the city from its infection. A wall separating him the woman whose kiss had barely left his lips.

He had felt it, felt that brush as she had slipped her tongue over his lip, the spark. The fleeting caress of her magic against his, her aura shimmering at the very limits of his mind, teetering on the brink. He had been with other mages before, recognized the tingle of an impending embrace, but this was new, extraordinary and wonderful, and he could only think of one reason why.

More than anything he had wanted to tell her, and now he could only curse himself that he hadn't. The words on the tip of his tongue were denied by her assurance, her absolute belief that she would be here with him. Now he might never have another chance.

The sob rose from his mouth and was stifled by his hand. Hopelessness overwhelmed him and he covered his face desperately, the letter fluttering to the floor as he wept in silence.

* * *

><p>"So what does it say, Hawke?" Varric asked, looking up at her over his reading glasses.<p>

She stood in the doorway, rubbing the perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand. He hadn't even asked what the cause of her arrival was. The answer was written plain in her panting breath, in the brightness of her eyes, in the fact that she hadn't changed out of her potion stained robes.

"He's alive," she gasped, reaching into her robe and drawing out the batter paper. "He isn't infected."

Varric shook his head as he pushed his chair back from the table. "Even you can't believe Athenril would lie to you about something like _that_, Hawke," he said, moving around the table towards her. "What does he have to say?"

She handed him the paper, dropping herself into a chair as he stood there. Reading the words she had already committed to memory.

_Ariadne,_

_I apologise for not writing sooner. Finding a moment when I am neither resting nor working is proving extremely difficult, but all the same, I took too long._

_I can't thank you enough for the latest batch of potions. Why you ever used Elegant at all is beyond me, although I suppose you didn't exactly have the time to be brewing all day before our little excursion. I can only marvel at your ability, and I must assume, as ever, that you had a good teacher._

_If I could ask for anything else at the moment it would be soap, and perhaps additional blankets. I'm sorry to be a burden on your purse like this, but if you could deduct anything you can find out of my share, I would be grateful._

She could sense Varric frowning above her, the formality of Anders' tone troubling him even though he knew about the problems with Athenril. She smiled, knowing as she did what came next.

_Have you heard from your __dear__ brother at all? _

She could almost see the dwarf's eyebrow raising, even as he stood with his back to her.

_You must be so proud of him, standing up for the things he believes in. Please let him know how often I think of him, and how fondly. _

There was no mistaking that chuckle.

_Pass my regards onto our companions. Let those who care know that I am well._

_Your friend,_

_Anders_

"Nice to see he's retained his sense of humour," Varric said, placing the paper down beside her on the table as she poured herself a cup of wine from the earthenware jug. She reclaimed it carefully, fingers enfolding it softly as she tucked it into the top of her spattered workrobe. He sat opposite her, eyes glinting mischievously as he watched her sip her drink. "I never realised he was so fond of Junior," he said, unable to suppress his smirk.

It was a significantly more relaxed Ariadne Hawke who sat down to write her next letter, propped up on a bar stool, quill tickling the tip of her nose as she pondered, hours later.

* * *

><p>"She thought I was dead?" he asked sharply, sitting up. The unfocused landscaped hazed itself into view around him. The door, as ever since its first appearance, was slightly to the left of centre in his line of sight. He recognised the vista from Sundermount, the mountain fog mingling with the disorientating vagueness of the vision.<p>

Sitting quietly at his side, Bethany shrugged. "You didn't write back to her for nearly a month," she replied, more than a note of scolding in her tone.

He glanced at her, noting for the first time how much clearer _she_ seemed. Now that he had identified her, he saw plainly those little glances and mannerisms that would have told him in an instant who she was. Even her face was clearer. There were flecks of amber in her warm brown eyes, and he could see that tiny scar on her left cheek that Ariadne had given her in some scrap over a toy horse when they were barely out of pinafores.

And of course there was no disguising that look, the distinct look of a protective sister. He was being _judged_.

"I'm a healer," he said quickly, his cheeks colouring as he tried to brush her off. "It would take a lot more than a bout of cholera to put me under, as well she knew."

He watched her out of the corner of his eye, saw her gaze shift to train itself on the ghostly door. "I'd have thought you, of all people," she said quietly, her mouth twisting with amusement, "would understand the power of paranoia."

"A good point," he chuckled, shifting his knees up towards his chest.

"And in fairness," she teased, leaning sideways to nudge him slightly with her shoulder, "she wasn't the _only _one who worried unduly."

He snorted, humour mingling with a deepening unhappiness. "When was she ever?" he said, sadly.

In his corner of the clinic all was quiet, save for the footsteps of his assistants keeping the night-time watch on the other side of the screens. Whether it was the generous stock of blankets still at his feet, or the mouthful of Varric's whisky warming the back of his throat (purely for medicinal purposes), he felt distinctly cheerful as he perused her second letter from the comfort of his chair.

Her point about knotweed infusion was straightforward enough, there was an ample supply to be found on the walls down at the docks. If she was as skilled with the brewing of that solution as she had proven with her elfroot potions, he'd been purifying the wells in the camps in a matter of days.

He glanced back at the page again, admiring the graceful ease of her hand.

_I noticed in the last brewing that mother was taking the boil too far. My father was the true expert in these things, as I imagine you suspected._

He tried to imagine her as a young girl, sitting wide eyed at her father's knee as he brewed the potions, the poultices that had kept their family afloat. He'd seen that look in her eyes himself as he'd taught her to heal, the patience and thoroughness with which she applied herself, those little notes she made in the pages of her journal. The thought warmed him as much as the whisky in his cup.

_Mother is much distracted at the moment, as the Viscount has accepted her petition. It would seem that I am safe, at least for now. _

He smiled at that. Perhaps the most ironic thing about this whole situation was that, trapped as he was, he was the safest he had ever been in this city. He permitted himself a chuckle of satisfaction as he read on.

_I am __so__ proud of Carver. It takes a truly self__ish__less individual to pit himself against such a storm, but I believe that he is brave enough, that he has the strength to forge his path. I am glad to hear that he is often in your thoughts, it seems that he is always in mine._

His eyes lingered over the word. Such a little thing, less than two syllables, and yet...

'Mine. Is it too much to hope that she is mine as much as I am hers?'

He could almost picture her, sitting in the Hanged Man, as he read on.

_Regards returned by all, in more or less warm terms. Varric has promised to drink one on your behalf every night until your return. _

_Please endeavour to take care of yourself, and write to me if there anything more I can do._

_Your__s,__ friend,_

_Ariadne _

He couldn't help it. The hope was all that he had to sustain him. Opening the drawer in the edge of his table, he withdrew the quill and his inkbottle.

_My dearest Mischief,_

_You realise, I suppose, that I was lying through my teeth when I told you I haven't had time to write? I have time. I seem to have more time right now than I know what to do with. Even with so many patients here in the clinic, most of the time they're just sleeping. I can heal their organs, cool their fevers, but really a wet flannel is as good for that as a spell, and there are relatives enough who need to feel they can do something. I seem to spend half my time just sitting around and waiting for the next person to wake up... or __not__._

"_So what do you do?" you ask, with your wide blue eyes and your head tilted just so._

_Well, love, I sit here and I write to you._

"_But I never get any letters!" you cry, your soft lips all pouty and flushed like they get when you've been crying, or when I kissed you,_

'Maker's breath that _kiss_.'

"_Whatever do you do with them all?" you ask, that unending curiosity taking over you._

_I put them in a box, Mischief, and I keep them under my bed. It gives me peace at night to be near them, to picture your face as you read them, when at last you finally do._

_Every time the door opens loudly I find myself hoping, however briefly, that it's you. I see your bright smile and your vivid eyes, that futile ponytail fraying out, all ruby strands cascading down onto your face. Then someone's coughing and the image is gone._

He paused momentarily, closing his eyes and his ears against the din of struggling breath, listening to the crackle of the brazier as the smoke lingered in his nostrils.

_Sometimes when it's quiet enough, sitting by the fire reminds me of those nights in the Deep Roads after the ogre. I hear your voice humming quietly as you go about getting ready for sleep, your little feet pattering over the stones as you move about in that old shirt you slept in, your soft laughter at my bad jokes. _

_Did you know that you can't sing? Not even a little. It's charming._

He took a sip of the whisky in his cup, before knocking the rest of it back. The stinging in his eyes was not caused by the alcohol alone as he bent over the page again.

_How can it be so easy and so impossible to be around you? What is it about you that makes me forget myself, my troubles and my task and just want to lie with my head in your lap while you murder your favourite tunes? _

He sighed, resting his cheek against his hand as he dipped his quill again.

_Justice doesn't like it when I write to you like this. He feels that it is wasted effort. _

'_That is because it is,'_ the spirit interjected.

_He's right. _

He could sense Justice's relief. _'I'm glad you still have the wit to realise that.'_

He changed his full stop to a comma.

_if only in a very technical sense, _

It was a strange sensation, the bitter grumbling of a spirit inside your own mind.

_but even he understands that there's not a lot else I can do right now. _

'_Are you attempting to convince her, me or yourself?'_

Now it was his turn to grumble.

He didn't sign it, didn't even attempt to finish it. The scratching of his quill had, as ever, done nothing to quench the fire, the flame of need, of anger and of hopelessness that roared within him.

She could have been here, trapped in the darkness beside him. Were it not for that stone-hearted elven bitch she would have been, and he wouldn't have been stuck here with no-one for company but the spirit in his head. His eyes lingered on his pallet, the desire for her presence willing his eyes to see, even for a moment, her sleeping form under the shapeless blankets.

Beyond the worn fabric of his makeshift wall, someone cried out in his sleep. A small child, no more than ten years old. The boy would be dead by morning, a fact no gift of his could alter. He put his head in his hands.

He was selfish, unspeakably selfish.

'What kind of monster would wish this on anyone? This heat and this dark and this constant stream of death?'

She was safe. Above ground in the clean air, away from the perpetual stench of corpses seeping up from the old mining tunnels, his only point of contact with the outside world.

And yet that knowledge did nothing to ease the ache in his chest, the endless hollowness that seemed ever to grow, consuming him from the inside out. The letter was a comfort, but the fact that it had taken it a near fortnight after the appearance of the supplies to arrive at his doors was infuriating.

If he replied too soon, no doubt the elf would keep his letter to Ariadne just as long as she'd kept the last one from him. Then again, the longer he took in replying, the longer Ariadne would be kept waiting, worrying herself ragged over his wellbeing.

He took up his quill again, beginning the letter that he would send the next afternoon.

_Dear Ariadne,_

_Varric is by far the most generous dwarf ever to grace the surface of Thedas. I assure you, I'm returning the gesture._

* * *

><p>The paper in Carver's hands was worn and faded, and the frown on his face seemed to match it perfectly.<p>

"You kept it?" he asked, holding the letter in his hands as he looked at her over the fire.

Sitting beside her sleeping patient on the ledge she nodded. "I kept all of them. Even when..." she trailed off, brushing a strand of dirty blond hair from Anders' face. "Some of them got destroyed, some lost, but yes. I kept every one."

She rose, walking around the fire to where the kettle was coming to the boil.

"How romantic," Carver snorted dryly. "Did you go weak at the knees reading about rotting corpses?"

She frowned at his words, even as she kept her back to him, attempted to shrug it off with humour. "You'd be surprised," she said. "I always did have a minor obsession with penmanship. I'd assumed that all Circle Mages wrote in the neat little script of the scholar, like father did, but he didn't."

Scalding water met brittle leaf in a flush of steam. She inhaled the aroma deeply, and sighed. "The way his words trailed over the pages, all loops and rounded shapes and sweeping curves. For one thing, it was a total mess. No wonder he was always in trouble with the First Enchanter." She paused momentarily. "Of course it showed how busy he was, writing everything in such a hurry, and at the time I couldn't help thinking it makes everything more... passionate somehow."

Her brother laughed weakly at that, and at the smile which told him that she knew how foolish she sounded. "Passionate?" he said, gasping for breath."There are holes in the parchment! He must have held the quill like a bloody _dagger_."

She stirred the pot carefully, listening the wheezing of her brother's lungs with a sinking heart. Even a rudimentary healer such as herself recognised the beginnings of the second stage of withdrawal. With the tea to ease his pain, and a suitable distraction, she had maybe three or four hours before things turned sour. When they did, when they so inevitably _did_ she would have to take more drastic action. The thought of it chilled her, but she had no choice.

Carver was chuckling again, and she knew without looking which lines he must be reading.

_Your brother is an example to us all, and I must say that his standing around in Hightown in his new __outfit__ armour was one of the most attractive things I have ever seen._

"You know," he commented, smiling wearily up at her as she brought him his tea, "I'm really rather glad that he wasn't _actually_ talking about me."


	11. New Things

**_A Quick A/N:_**

Epic thanks to: xvmysteryvx, Isabela Monroe, Evilnor, JadeOokami, beryberry, and Blackrose0099 for their brilliant reviews on Chapter 10.

And additionally super duper shiny thanks to Evilnor and AshyRaine for their beta skills. In the absence of my lovely MaryJade (where are you?) their help has been great.

Disclaimer - The events of the three year gap are kinda mine, but characters etc belong to Bioware.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11: New Things<strong>

As the ripening sun of late Justinian warmed the fields into life around the city, the Revered Mother marked the Chanter's Board with the notice that it had been four months since the beginning of the quarantine. It was the hottest midsummer the Circle scholars had ever recorded in the city, far warmer even than the average August. Every night as she threw her sweat-sodden shirt on the pile for the laundrywomen, Ariadne was stung by the bitter knowledge that her suffering could be nothing compared to his.

The heat was only going to build, and the fever was only gathering in strength, cutting a swathe through the population of the Undercity the likes of which Kirkwall had never seen. Word among the people was that the nobles were holding back on efforts to bring more aid to the suffering in the hopes that the epidemic would bring their numbers back down after the influx of refugees. The thought made her sick to her stomach, but she wouldn't put such callousness past _nobles_ any more than she would Templars.

She watched Elthina retreating back into the Chantry with interest. It was the first time she'd been in Hightown in over a month, and the mere sight of people so well dressed, so elegant, had the attraction of something almost alien. The air was fresher here, purified by the trees and grasses grown in the estate and Chantry gardens, blown in from the forests wreathing Sundermount. She breathed deeply, feeling the green wholesomeness filling her lungs after weeks of potion vapours and dust and smoke.

She had been at the Merchant's Guild, collecting the next stage of the profits from the expedition, ready to take them to her mother when the sun was at its height. The estate was finally habitable, its two main bedrooms, kitchen and entrance halls having been cleared at last. The money in her pocket would pay the workmen who had restored it, and would leave enough for Leandra to begin the task of improving the other rooms.

She leaned against the wrought iron fence, looking up at the Chantry, the metal cool against her back through the fine silk of her shirt. She caught a shocked glance from a passing lady and her fine daughters. An Amell scion, lazing about Hightown in her shirt and breeches. A scandal to be sure.

Let them talk. Let them mutter about how the Hawke upstart refused to wear frocks, how she pranced around town in her ugly, practical leather boots like the dirty Lowtowner she was. Let them whisper of how she played the boy at arms, fighting bandits and dragons like a true Ferelden dog lover. She had as little love for them.

She fiddled absent-mindedly with her shift cuffs. Here in Hightown, with the sun beating down warmly and the streets alive with the sounds of people going about their business, it was hard not to remember the last time she had been here in this state, dressed in her best and waiting nervously for noon. In truth, the feel of his lips against her own had scarcely left her mind since that day. That such a fleeting sensation could so mark her was something of a wonder.

"Hawke?" the voice interrupted her thoughts quietly, and she looked up to see the enquiring face of the Starkhaven Prince, Sebastian Vael. "It's been a while since I last saw you at the Chantry."

She sprang to her feet as if an adder had lodged its fangs in the backside of her breeches. "Your Highness?" she exclaimed, blushing deeply as she bowed her head in greeting. "I'm surprised you remember me."

The prince smiled, a hint of amusement sparkling in his blue eyes. He was dressed plainly, much as herself in a shirt and simple trousers. The dirt on his palms and knees suggested that he had been tending to the Chantry gardens. "You avenged my family, my lady," he said warmly, returning her bow with one of his own. "That is not a kindness I am likely to forget."

She smiled slightly disbelievingly. "Well," she said, distinctly taken aback, "thank you anyway." He gestured for her to walk with him, and she did so, making their way slowly around the Chantry square. She found herself smiling at the way the sunlight painted the stone with the towers' silhouettes. "It's been too long since I was here," she said quietly.

He looked down at her, a momentary flicker of concern on his noble face. "You seem pale," he said gently, "have you been unwell?"

She followed his gaze, saw how pale her skin was compared to the tan covering his own hands. She shook her head. "Compared to people in the Undercity? Of course not," she said smartly, pausing to consider a gentler answer. "I've been brewing potions for Anders."

He raised his eyebrow at that. "The apostate who travelled with you?" he asked, watching her with enquiring eyes.

She flushed slightly, fiddling with the cuff of her shirt sleeve. "I am also an apostate, your Highness."

He paused momentarily. "I meant no offence," he replied, his voice broad with his Starkhaven brogue. "I had heard that there was still a healer in the Undercity, and I had heard that you were helping him... _despite_ the quarantine."

She looked at him warily, but saw the ease in his countenance, and relaxed. "I assume that you've been talking to Varric then," she commented, smiling slightly as she resisted the urge to roll up her sleeves. He nodded by way of a reply, and they passed under the archway in the direction of the estate. "The food the Viscount is providing is not enough," she said plainly. "It can support the healthy, but do nothing to aid the sick," she paused, trying to read some form of reaction in his impassive face. "I cannot sit by idly while people die unnecessarily."

The prince stiffened slightly, the tension as he masked his feelings unmistakable. "The Maker works in mysterious ways, Hawke," he said coolly, his blue eyes ever so slightly narrowed. "Perhaps this pestilence is a sign."

Her eyes widened in disbelief. "Can you really believe that?" she asked, far louder than she had intended. "Do you believe, as the nobles do, that there is nothing down there worth saving?"

The archer's face softened, surprised as he seemed by the fire brimming in her voice. "No, Hawke," he said calmly, "I don't."

So, he wasn't with them, then. That was a relief. He seemed to feel the same way, the unfurrowing of his brows showing that he too had realized that he was in the company of someone who could be trusted. She relaxed, her voice still ever so slightly defensive as the tension unwound in her shoulders. "I have the skills my father gave me," she said quietly, not quite able to meet his eyes. "I believe the Maker would want me to use them."

"You are right, no doubt," he replied gently, reaching up to put a kind, almost fatherly hand upon her shoulder, "and I'm sure that with your help, this Anders has saved many lives."

She smiled slightly, looking up to see the warmth she felt reflected in those deep blue eyes. It had been a long time since she felt such comfort in the presence of a man of faith. "He has," she said softly.

They stood together under the colonnade, keeping out of the hearing of untrusted ears. "Have you seen him?" the prince asked, when he was sure that they could not be heard.

Ariadne shook her head firmly. "The people who send the messages will not let anyone past them," she sighed heavily, leaning back against a rough stone pillar. "Even if I could get in, I wouldn't risk anyone else's life by coming back out."

Again those chestnut eyebrows moved in surprise. "That's noble of you," he said, moving to stand beside her, though he did not choose to imitate her posture. "He must be _quite_ a friend."

She noted the suggestion, but dismissed it. "Anders taught me healing magic, when we travelled together in the Deep Roads," she said evenly, looking down at the slightly pointed toes of her soft leather boots. "I could help people." She paused, her eyes uneasy as they met his. "I may have met you as a mercenary, your Highness, but I don't take death lightly."

The prince turned slightly towards her. "Of that I never had any doubt," he said, and then sighed. "It is a great pity that none of the Chantry sisters were in the Undercity when the quarantine was declared."

She couldn't help but grimace. "Your highness..."

"Sebastian," he interjected.

"Sebastian," Ariadne repeated, refusing to be disorientated, "those Chantry sisters declared an outbreak and then ran for the surface. Their cowardice has the whole of Darktown on the brink of chaos." She could hear the anger rising in her voice again, the righteous anger making her eyes blaze and her nostrils flare. She checked herself. "They should be defrocked, at the very least," she finished quietly.

She could sense the prince beside her bristling slightly. "I'm certain that it wasn't so simple," he said, a harsh tone entering his accent.

She sighed, pursing her lips in irritation. "Then your faith is a blessing to you," she replied, formally.

Ariadne could hear the frown in his voice as he replied, "You seem troubled, Hawke. Is there anything I can do to help?"

She looked up at him, seeing the genuine concern in those deep eyes. "I wish there was, you highness," she said quietly, her annoyance subsiding as she realised how little it had to do with him. He was a sworn brother - she had no right to be annoyed by his belief in what the Chantry told him. There was a kind of safety in it. Even if she couldn't agree with his views, she could tell that she would be able to rely on his voice, on his belief. So long as she chose her words with him carefully, she had nothing to fear. She moved away from the pillar, walking into the sunlight from the shade. "There are many things wrong in this city," she said to him as he followed, "and I intended to set out to make some of those things right, but now..." She paused, trying to find the words to voice her frustrations without giving too much away. "It seems that all I can do is make potions," she said, frowning deeply. "And that my _cause_ is as much a victim of this infection as anything or anyone else."

She turned back to him, seeing an expression on his face that she did not recognize. He seemed frozen for a moment, before the brother in him assumed control. He smiled, reaching forward once again to place his hand upon her shoulder. "You are a strong woman, Hawke," he said kindly, that strange look still lingering in his eyes as she looked up at him. "The Maker will show you the way forward. You will know how to act."

She bowed her head slightly, stepping back from him as he withdrew his hand. "I hope you are right," she said, with a small smile, before gesturing behind her. "Now, however, my mother is expecting me at the estate."

He returned the expression warmly, looking appreciatively up at the facade behind her. "I had heard the news," he said amicably. "Finally an Amell returns to the famous mansion."

"Finally indeed," she replied, unable to give the words quite the same level of enthusiasm. "An Amell, and a Hawke." She took another step back, bowing her head slightly once again, "Thank you for your time, your highness... _Sebastian_."

"And you, my lady," the prince replied, smiling as she corrected herself. "Farewell."

The workmen were still sweeping down in the entrance hall as she arrived, and the door was open to give the masonry dust freedom to escape. Her mother didn't approve of this practice, saying that it was wrong for people passing in the street to see their staff going about their business so openly. It had taken a great deal to persuade her that it was necessary if they weren't all going to choke to death. Of course, the masons were some of the finest in the city, and there was a certain amount of pride to be had in the fact that everyone knew it. She stepped over their tools carefully, making her way into the entrance hall.

One of the workmen, a young dwarf, had a slight tear in the shoulder seam of his jerkin. It was the sort of detail Anders loved to notice, that he'd have spent hours pondering, wondering what could have caused it, whether the jerkin really belonged to the boy, or if he'd borrowed it. A scrap of parchment with a few hastily scrawled words, a bit of fabric caught on a thorn down at the wounded coast, the fact that Sister Petrice's hair just _wasn't_ a natural colour, or that Seamus Dumar's seemed to defy gravity, these tiny details were clues to vast realms of imaginative intrigue.

She stood there under the arch, looking up at the towering hall.

'He should be here. In this house. This is as much his victory as mine.'

Trapped on the other side of the barrier as he was, he was still far closer to her than anyone else. He had been with her at every stage, the voice of calm and of reason against her stresses and frustrations. He was more a part of this moment than Aveline, or even her mother. It seemed fitting then, that his letter was there waiting for her when she arrived.

She crossed the room to the desk where, next to the box of letters her mother had brought from home, the broken seal glinted in the sunlight.

_Dear Ariadne,_

_Congratulations on your shiny new house._

_-Anders_

To a casual reader the note might have seemed cool in its brevity, even sarcastic. It would have seemed strange to them to see the smile that lit her features as she saw the trinity of lines. Three lines, a line for each of the words they couldn't say.

_I miss you_.

The note said it without saying it, telling her that he was thinking of her, that he wished that he could be with her, that he could share this moment.

Hidden in riddles, in veiled references and 'accidental' details, their correspondence was a patchwork of the secret and a mockery of the overt. She half-wondered what Athenril must have made about their discussion of 'Carver's' stunning physique, which one considered lean and catlike, and the other... strangely _feminine_.

She wondered too what the elf made of their idle references to 'Hightown Market', 'sunburn', 'crossbow bolts' and 'Diamondback'. So many little phrases, minute moments referred to, fragments of conversations that only they would remember:

_In the midst of all this death and nastiness, I treated a man with the clap this morning. I told him: 'You mustn't keep pestering all these young women, or you'll get a reputation as a scoundrel.'_

_I seem to be grinding my teeth at night. Perhaps I should find something suitable to bite down on._

_The heat down __there__ here is incessant. I can't even wear clothes when I sleep, it's driving me __mad__._

_I know it's wrong of me to tease Varric so, but I just don't know how to stop myself when I'm around him._

_I miss our games of Diamondback. Who'd have thought there could be such benefits to losing?_

_I met a rather nice chap by the Docks one time. I asked him if he came there often. That broke the ice a bit and I bought him a drink._

_I think my appreciation of your brother is only natural, I'm still a man, after all._

"Darling? Ariadne is that you?"

The voice broke her reverie, and she sighed irritably. Folding the letter carefully, she slipped it into the box and went off to meet her mother.

It was a tired, achey, and potion-stained Hawke who sat down, hours later, to write her response as the candles burned low.

_Dear Anders,_

_Thank you for your note. I spent the day surveying the rest of the house with mother, trying to work out which areas need the most attention. My initial thought was to clear the passage into the cellars that I mentioned, but it would seem that the previous tenants decided that they were too much of a risk after our little visit, and destroyed much of them. Any recovery will take months, at best._

She brushed the tip of her nose against the soft barbs of the feather, as she tried to put into words what she was feeling. Her quill scratched slowly over the creamy surface.

_This place seems unreal. The sight of all this room puts my teeth on edge. It makes mother happy, however, and I suppose that is what matters. I've set up my equipment at the fire in the entrance hall for now, while the workmen get started on the library. _

She stopped herself, on the verge of gushing about how exciting it was. Her lips twisted in a wry smile.

_Why she thinks that room is important is beyond me. _

She paused momentarily, the change in the scent of the air telling her that the latest batch of bottles was ready for corking. She worked quickly, pushing the stoppers tight into the steaming necks, the scent of elfroot making her chest tighten just a little. She returned to her desk, a sad little smiling curling the edge of her mouth.

_It's funny how scents can trigger memories, isn't it? I've been making elfroot potions since before I learned to spell my own name (it took longer than you'd think), but now when I stand there over that blasted pot, trying to stir in perfect turns, I catch a sniff and I'll be in Darktown, or that corner of the Hanged Man or the ruined house in that Thaig._

The ache in her chest yawned, and she forced herself to think of something more cheerful.

_Isabela has recently joined Varric in the task of drinking to your health of an evening. She also wishes me to inform you that if you make it out of this epidemic unscarred she'll teach you 'the trick she used that night in Denerim'. Whatever that means..._

_As always, send word if you need anything. I'll be the first in when the quarantine is ended._

_-Ariadne_

* * *

><p>"I can't believe she trusted him," he snapped bitterly. "Just like that."<p>

He was sitting in the window of the mezzanine level, mere feet from where she had just been recalling reading his letter. It had always been a favourite spot of theirs, with just enough space for the two of them to curl up together if they didn't mind being the teensiest bit uncomfortable. But then, what was discomfort when you could have cuddles?

Bethany sat up on the railing, swinging her legs slightly in a way that might have made him worry slightly if she hadn't been... well... already dead. "Did she have any reason not to?" she asked, head cocked to one side. "Had he given her any cause for concern?"

He swung his legs around, planting his feet on the smooth floorboards. "The man was a..." he hesitated, irritation draining from him. "No. I suppose he hadn't."

A curious smile twisted her lips. "Strange," she said slowly, slipping off the railing, "all things considered. You say so little about Fenris, but the moment it's Sebastian..."

"Are you surprised?" he exclaimed, getting angrily to his feet. "Fenris _never _would have..." he faltered, his anger ebbing. "What's the use? I don't even know the full story."

"No," she said, leaning back against the carved stone. "No you don't."

He sighed, crossing the space and leaning his elbows up against the rail beside her, looking down on the silvery door glowing faintly in the centre of the hall. "She trusted him," he said. "She trusted anyone who gave her cause to. She trusted his faith."

Bethany turned, standing beside him to look down. "And in that she was naive," she said softly.

He was on the verge of responding when something registered. He paused. "Carpet," he said quietly.

"What?" she said, frowning as he looked down at his feet. He was in loose cotton pyjama pants, the ones he'd had the summer they took their holiday. He wriggled his toes, feeling the wiry fibres brush over his nerves.

"I can feel the carpet," he whispered. "I can feel the _floor_." He looked up, taking in the room carefully. He grabbed Bethany's arm. "Look!" he exclaimed, pointing to the chandelier. He could _see_ the texture of the iron. "Everything seems clearer."

He pulled her over to the bedroom door, pointing at the paler patch of wood. He squatted down, his hand still on her wrist, running his fingers over the coarse, scuffed surface. "Where Magellan used to dig," he murmured, smiling in recognition, "trying to get into the bedroom." He looked up at her, seeing the visions blurring in around her confused face. "What's causing this?"

* * *

><p>Sometimes, he thought that her letters were all that kept him going.<p>

The rest of the time, he was certain of it.

The heat was sweltering in the Undercity, and the water, already a particular point of contention given the epidemic, was becoming a crisis. With four contaminated wells closed for sterilization, and a further three restricted to boiling only, the scrabble for hydration often descended into violence.

Even as the infection clawed people down in ever greater numbers, the number of headwounds, fractures and broken knuckles was spiralling upwards. With only one pair of healer's hands between himself and the whole of his team, more and more he found himself resorting to the reel of fine spun silk Ariadne had sent him, and sterilising cuts with saline. Luckily, and it was one of the few reliefs of the whole matter, Perrin's patience had extended into neat, speedy stitches, and one look from those fierce brown eyes was enough to quell even the toughest brawler.

Of course, it didn't do to say such things in his letters, wouldn't do to make her worry any more than he already did. He saw it in every one of her notes, those slight tremors as she signed her name, her perfect hand thrown off by her desperate need to reinforce the command: write back. He would be cheerful, as he tried to be as often as he could, to focus on the positives, the ways in which he could make her days brighter, even as he sat in the dark.

_Ariadne,_

Even just writing her name was enough to bring a smile to his tired features.

_Glad to hear you've settled in. Now that Bodahn and his son have come to work for you, perhaps Sandal will stop wandering off to kill darkspawn and we'll finally figure out what exactly it is that he can do. _

_Have you given up trying to persuade your mother that she should have the master bedroom yet? It really should be yours, all things considered._

_It's strange that you should feel that way about elfroot. I have a similar thing whenever I smell lavender, or beeswax. Of all things they make me think of Hightown market. I can't think why._

He paused, turning to the unmarked letter Teller had slipped into his hand that morning.

_Without meaning to put a damper on your current good fortune, I need to ask for your help. A mutual friend is visiting the city indefinitely and I was wondering if you would put them __out __up until such time as they get back on their feet. No doubt you'll recognise them. They know where to find you._

He finished briefly, knowing that Athenril took her time with their longer letters. This was too important, and he could always write another in the next day or so. He sealed it carefully, and sat back in his chair. He was exhausted, and more than ready for a fitful night's sleep. Stretching, he got to his feet, and poked his head around the screen.

Cleaner now than she had been a few months ago, and wearing the smart brown work robes Ariadne had managed to acquire for his nurses, Perrin was tending to a recovering old woman who had broken her hip in a fall. With small, but deft movements, she got the patient comfortable, smiling with satisfaction as the grandmother sighed in relief. He caught her attention with a small wave, and she came back behind the screens with him.

"Can you give this letter to your brother, Perrin?" he asked, knowing she'd leave for home while he was still sleeping. "Ask him to take it to the barrier?"

She nodded, the wirey knot she forced her hair back into these days bobbing slightly. The clinic was relatively busy, and the sounds of patients and nurses bustling as he started fixing up the draught to help him sleep meant that he was surprised when he realised that she hadn't gone. He glanced at her enquiringly.

"You write a lot of letters, don't you ser?" she asked, her eyes flickering over the desk.

He turned towards her, grinding the pestle into the small mortar in his hands - another gift from Ariadne. "I suppose I do, Perrin," he replied, turning back to his supplies to take a pinch of sugar.

She moved slightly closer to the desk, a tiny hint of concern in her eyes as she reached out to touch the edge of a paper. "But you don't always send them?" she said, looking carefully up at him.

He smiled wryly. "Anyone would think you'd been spying on me..."

"Only a little," she said, smiling warmly in return, that mote of concern not leaving those brown eyes. "Just you write a lot more than you send, ser."

She certainly had him there. He gestured to the chair, leaving the abrasion by the washstand and sitting opposite her on the bed "I do," he said quietly. "I suppose Teller told you that the smugglers read what I send."

"You mean Athenril?" she asked, with a slight nod of assent.

He couldn't help the way his jaw tightened at the mention of that name. "Yes," he said coldly.

The girl shifted slightly in her chair, clearly uncertain if she should ask. "Why does she want to read your letters?" she said quickly, the faintest of darkenings under her freckles.

He sighed, unfastening the chain between his pauldrons. "Because she's angry, I think," he said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "At the person I'm writing too."

Again that uncertain look in her eyes as she asked, "You mean Hawke?"

He felt the surprise etch itself into his expression. "I never realised Teller could read," he said.

She held the letter up, drawing a work-toughened finger under the words: Hawke, Amell Estate, Hightown. "He can't," she said, turning it back towards her, her eyes scanning the words again, "but I can."

_That_ was definitely a surprise.

"Is Hawke a noble, ser?" she asked interestedly. "The letter says he lives in Hightown."

"_She_ is," he replied, smiling slightly. "Of a sort, at least. Not that she likes it much."

A frown creased those young, brows, the skin so pale underneath her freckles. "She doesn't like being a noble?" she repeated, nonplussed.

Anders got to his feet, slipping off his coat and draping it over the foot of the bed. "She's like us, Perrin," he said slowly. "Just a normal person who wants to live her own life. Nobles..." he paused, resettling himself opposite her in his shirt and breeches. "There's a lot that goes with being a noble that isn't as fun as you might think."

Perrin was clearly sceptical about this. "Does she live in a mansion?" she asked, eagerly.

He couldn't help but smile at the enthusiasm lighting her tired face. "She does," he said warmly, rubbing a hand over his stubble. "One of the biggest in the city, by the sounds of it."

The girl paused, processing the information. Her eyes widened momentarily as something occurred to her. "She writes to you a lot," she said enquiringly, "doesn't she, ser?"

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "She does," he said defensively.

The question came almost instantly. "Do you love her?"

The blush staining his cheeks was probably more than enough of an answer. He got to his feet, reaching out for the pestle and mortar. "That's a bit of a personal question, Perrin," he replied trying to ignore the higher pitch of his voice as he stood with his back to her.

The excitement in her voice was not lost on him. "You do, don't you?"

He glanced back at her over his shoulder as he ground the ingredients. "Perrin..." he said warningly.

But the girl's imagination was already running away with her. "And she must love you too," she said enthusiastically, "to write so many letters."

He breezed past her towards the brazier, scooping the paste into a cup. "I don't think you should..." he muttered, trying to concentrate on his actions, "I don't think jumping to conclusions..."

Perrin wasn't listening. "Are you going to marry her?" she asked brightly. "Move up and live in that big mansion, when the quarantine is over?"

He half dropped the kettle in shock. "I..." he stammered, standing up and looking back at her, "I don't know that it's that simple."

"Of course it is," she exclaimed dismissively. "You love her, and she loves you. You should marry her."

He sighed, turning back to the kettle. "I wish I had your optimism," he said, carefully pouring the steaming water onto his ingredients. "Even if I thought... I'm a _mage_, Perrin."

The girl's expression fell sharply. "Doesn't she like mages?" she asked softly, her disappointment palpable.

He turned back to her, unable to shake his surprise that this girl on the point of womanhood, living the life that she did, could still believe in the fairytale. "No," he said kindly, moving once again to sit opposite her, placing his cup on the floor by his feet, "that's not what I mean. She's a mage too. She's like me."

"Then what's the problem?" she asked, confused.

"_That_ is the problem," he sighed, resting his right elbow against his knee, pressing his forehead into his fingertips. "Perrin, you know what the Chantry says about mages. And what they do to mages that they find?"

She nodded, her expression becoming serious. "They put them in the Circle, ser."

He nodded in reply, trying to explain to her as calmly as he could manage, even as the words stirred the anger within him. "So you know I'm not supposed to be here," he said.

She started at that. "But you..."

He cut her off. "We're talking about the law, Perrin," he said firmly. "What you and I think doesn't _count_."

"Yes, ser."

"The same is true for Ar... for Hawke," he said, closing his eyes and covering them with his hand. "She's not supposed to live the way she does, to live in a mansion at all."

"But she does," Perrin replied, cautiously.

"She does," he said, pushing his thumb and fingers into his eyesockets, "because she's got enough money, enough influence to protect her from the Templars." He sighed, looking up at the girl as he fought to bite back his anger. "If I were to live with her, that influence might not be enough to protect us both."

"But if you were married," she protested, not realising how much she was pushing him, "that wouldn't matter, would it? You'd be one flesh in the eyes of the Maker."

He shook his head, getting to his feet with a noise of irritation. "Perrin, do you know _any_ married mages?" he asked sharply.

"Well no, ser," she said quietly. "Fact is I only know you."

He strode over to the washbasin, pouring the water for the jug. "Well, you're never going to," he replied, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. "The Chantry doesn't allow it."

"What do you mean?" she asked, as he dunked his hands into the lukewarm basin, washing mechanically, fingertips to elbows.

'_She does not know. Like all mundanes, she knows not what we suffer.'_

'She's a child, there is a great deal she doesn't...'

"I mean that they don't let mages marry," he said, lathering and rinsing, shutting out his own voices of protest. "Normal people or other mages."

"Why not?"

The water in the basin began to glow, blue cracks along his fingertips shining light through the inky, soapy liquid. He tried to draw breath, to escape the feeling tightening on his chest like a vice, gripping the edge of the basin with his soapy hands.

"Because it gives them too much freedom," he said quietly, feeling the sneer curling his lips as he reached for the towel. "Because marriage is sanctified to allow people to have children, and the last thing they want us to do is _breed_." He dried his hands roughly, dropping the towel to the floor as the cracks spread up his arms like the soapy water before them, his hands clenching into fists. "Because it would give us the belief that we could live _normally_," he said, the power surging through him, "and that's something they would never want. _Because it would allow us to be happy,_" he said, feeling Justice claiming his voice as he turned towards the girl, her eyes wide with fear as he raged,"_when they only wish us to live that we might be punished for the sins of others, despite those others being hundreds of years dead. Because they want us to suffer, to spend our lives alone in the fetid, screaming dark._"

He felt himself towering over her, his vision blue and hazy, as the remaining water steamed off his arms. He was shaking with anger, the need to lash out building beyond measure, beyond his control.

"Ser?"

Her voice, quiet and fearful, brought him back to his senses. The cracks faded, and he stumbled forwards, supporting his weakened legs with a hand on the desk.

"I'm sorry, Perrin," he whispered, feeling her hands on his shoulders. "I'm so, so sorry."

"It's alright, ser," she said, that soothing voice she used on patients washing over him as she guided him into the chair. "You didn't hurt me, I'm fine."

He groaned. She'd understood the threat he posed, she realized the danger. "I should never have let myself get that way," he murmured, unable to bring himself to look up at her. "Not in front of you."

She squatted down at his feet, the hubbub of the clinic creeping back into his ears as she looked into his face. "I understand, ser," she said firmly, in a way that denied any protest he might have. "When mother died I thought I'd explode, I was so angry. Everyone gets that way sometimes."

She was pressing something into his hands. It was the cup, the soothing scents of the infusion wafting up into his nostrils, that tiniest scent of lavender easing an ache deep inside. She drew back from him, sitting in the chair again, watching him carefully as he regarded the steaming tea.

"You're so innocent," he said quietly, running his fingertips over the earthenware rim. "She's like that. Always tries to make the worst of me seem best."

Perrin smiled softly, sweeping some dust off the front of her robes. "Then it sounds like she's got the right idea," she said, a curiously mothering tone in her voice, "if you don't mind me saying."

"You're a good girl," he sighed, smiling slightly as he sipped the surface of his draught. "I should... get some rest."

"Thank you, ser," she said, getting to her feet. "I'll make sure that Teller gets the letter to her."

He nodded, relieved that she could so readily get back to her work after what she had seen. "Thank you," he said.

* * *

><p>The leather pouch in his hands was stuffed with letters. Worn and battered, bleached by years exposing the ink to the sun, he made his way through them idly as she talked. He lingered over few of them, letting the words drift idly past his eyes until one in particular caught his eye. Unlike the majority, this one was written in Ariadne's own hand, a letter that had never been sent.<p>

_I had the dubious honour today of receiving a letter from my brother. It only took him four months. I don't know what I'd been expecting exactly, perhaps something of an apology for joining the army specifically gathered for the oppression of mages, or even a word of thanks for finding a permanent means of supporting mother. Strangely enough, neither thought seems to have occurred to him. Do you think Knight Commander Meredith offers an award to the surliest of her recruits? If so, she has a promising candidate in young Ser Carver, arrogant little bitch that he is._

_If you were here, I'm sure you'd be telling me not to let him get to me. Can I be excused by the fact that he is __trying__ to get to me? It's difficult enough being magnanimous when he's just being a bit of an arse. I think he expects me to write back. I don't think I will. I'd only end up writing something I'd regret._

He looked at the date at the top. August. That made sense. He sighed.

"Of all the things you could have brought with you," he asked as she turned back to him from the fire, "you picked these why exactly?"

"Because letters, Carver," she said, her voice taking on that tone that reminded him instantly of their mother, "even ones that were never sent, form a point of connection." Her fingertips lingered on the spine of a large book, poking out of her satchel. "You can remember a conversation," she said quietly, "but you can't _hold_ it in your hands. Having these here, I don't know how exactly... It makes them part of the spell."

He frowned at her, the heat from the rebuilt fire buffeting at his face. "Does the book not say more?" he asked, eyes lingering on the open satchel at her side.

"It's difficult," she said wearily, closing and buckling the old leather bag with nimble fingers, keeping the book from view. "The situation is unique after all. The tome doesn't have a good deal to say on _spirits_."

He paused, worry gnawing at his mind. "Maybe you shouldn't have cast the spell if you didn't know what it would do," he said, watching her run a hand over her hair.

"Carver," she groaned, resettling her body, hot and heavy against him, by his side, "you know as well as I do that I didn't have a choice."


	12. Fevered Labours

**_A/N:_**_ Today's update comes to you courtesy of the editing skills of Evilnor_, _Ashyraine an_d _beryberry. Much love to them and all my reviewers._

_In other news: I'm offering a 1000 word custom one-shot to whoever give this crazy fic of mine its 50th review_._ So please, please review!_

_Disclaimer: It wasn't me, it was the one-armed man._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 12: Fevered Labours<strong>

The Hanged Man was unusually busy for such a hot evening. Merchants and mercenaries mingled with guardsmen and goat-sellers in a six deep throng around the bar. When it stayed this hot for this long, you kind of had to just start getting on with your life. It wasn't as if it mattered that you stank when everyone else stank too. Perhaps the smell of stale smoke was what drew in the punters, a welcome change from the general, eye-watering stink of body odour you'd get anywhere else.

It was good to be out again. With the gold pouring in from the expedition faster than she could spend it, Ariadne could buy purer ingredients for Anders' potion supply. The time she saved from not having to distil every extract twice before adding it meant that she had more than enough time to spare, when she wasn't running mages out of the city.

Since the meeting with their 'mutual friend' almost two months previously, Ariadne had succeeded in helping two mages escape from the Circle and an apostate based in Lowtown to find the means to leave Kirkwall for good. Requests for help, when they came, came in the way they had for her father back in the days of the old 'Red Flags': dead drops in public places, or a few muttered words while standing at a stall in the market.

Even with the place so full of people, she couldn't help but feel a little bit alone. With Isabela chatting to one of the few mercenaries in the city she _hadn't_ already taken to bed, and Varric and Merrill discussing something over at the table, the fact that _he_ wasn't here was more painfully apparent than usual. Not to mention that his absence meant that she had a far higher number of embarrassing flirtations to counter than she liked.

The man a few places down from her at the bar wasn't making the most subtle attempt to get her attention. With his short, scruffy crop of pale blond hair, and his sallow, weak-chinned face, he kept making these simpering little smiles, and waggling his fingers. She tried to ignore him, glancing over at Isabela on the other side of the corner with a roll of the eyes. The pirate smirked at her over the warrior's shoulder, giving her a look that said, quite clearly: 'Looks like you're _in_ there, pet.'

How helpful. Her lips curled into a sneer of irritation as a gap appeared beside her, quickly filled by her would-be companion. She acknowledged his presence with a polite half-smile and took a deep, deep draught of her cider. The buzz of the alcohol had a _strange_ familiarity.

Unfortunately, he seemed to take this as some sort of invitation, leaning slightly towards her, toying with the rim of his tankard. "You're Hawke," he said, his voice as weedy as his appearance.

"Sometimes," she said sarcastically, waving to Corff for another cup as she drained her own, that weird tingle still hovering on the edge of her senses. "On the weekends they call me 'Rita'."

He didn't seem to appreciate her humour. Or spot it. "My name is Cannor," he said, leaning closer and just letting the back of his hand, holding his cup, brush against her knuckles. Her eyes widened as the spark shot between them, a rivulet of purple power that was gone in an instant. His pallid lips twisted into a smirk. "I believe we have _mutual_ _friends_."

A mage. A mage and a _fool_.

To use a bolt like that in public, even when the crowd meant that next to no-one could possibly have seen it. She glanced at Isabela. One look at the pirate's expression told her that _she _at least had seen.

Without a second thought Ariadne seized the boy by the collar of his shirt, dragging him in the direction of the staircase for mere moments before her grasp was joined by the former captain's.

It was a bewildered, and slightly bruised looking mage who left Isabela's room a half hour later.

"Well," the pirate said, leaning back against a worn sideboard, inspecting her fingernails, "I say we set Fenris on him. Maker knows that elf could use _some_ form of release."

Ariadne sighed, sitting down opposite her on the table's edge. "Your attempts to bed every last one of our companions aside, Bela," she said, folding her arms, "we are not '_setting'_ Fenris on anyone. He's not a Mabari!"

"I suppose not," the buxom Rivaini mused, more than a little disappointed. "Although," she said, her eyes twinkling wickedly as she looked up at her friend, "you do _have_ one of those."

"We're not attacking him, Bela," the mage replied sharply, fixing her friend with a scolding stare. "He came to us for help."

"And he went and used magic on you in front of every patron in the 'Man," Isabela snapped irritably, getting to her feet with an angry gesture. "As far as I'm concerned, that warrants _death_. Preferably bloody."

"Have you been taking lessons from Aveline?" Ariadne asked teasingly, unable to restrain the little smile twisting at the corner of her mouth. "Endearing as your over-protectiveness undoubtedly is, I have a responsibility."

"And so do I," the pirate said, tucking a strand of hair back behind Ariadne's ear and letting her hand rest on the mage's shoulder. "If you get yourself killed, you can bet your perfect little arse that I'll be the one that glowy blue friend of yours rips to shreds."

"I'd be tempted to ask which one," the younger woman replied sheepishly, scuffing the toe of her boot against the rough wooden floorboards, "but that would imply that Fenris and I are actually friends."

Isabela chuckled richly. "You're missing out," she said, reaching for the open bottle of spirits on the table behind Ariadne and taking a deep swig. "That voice of his can do things to a girl."

"Lovely," she groaned, pushing the pirate back and slipping off the table. "We should get back to Varric before he starts making up stories about us again."

"If you _insist_."

Down at their table, it was Merrill who started asking questions before Varric could even start.

"What did that man want, Hawke?"

Ariadne was startled to see the anxiety in the elf's face. She loosened the neck of her blouse from her skin with a finger. Somehow it seemed to be even hotter down here than before. "Nothing, Merrill," she said quietly, hoping to dismiss the subject as she sipped her drink. "Just a friend of a friend."

But the girl persisted, leaning forward slightly. "What friend?"

She hesitated, already seeing where this conversation was going. Why else would the girl persist when she had already made her position so abundantly clear? "He's a mage, Merrill," she replied briskly. "He needs my help."

And there it was, that eager flash in the elf's eye that told Ariadne exactly what she was about to say. "I could help too," Merrill said quickly. "If you'd just let me come along I could..."

"No," she replied, cutting her off with a shake of the head. "Absolutely not. I'm not taking you _anywhere_."

The elf protested, "But I could..."

The last thing she wanted was to make another scene so soon after Cannor, but Merrill's voice was rising along with the temperature. "Help? What you do is not _help_, Merrill," Ariadne said, smacking her palm down flat upon the table. "It's the opposite of help."

She could sense Varric beside her, almost feel those large, warm eyes narrowing into a glare. Over at the bar, she could see that look in Isabela's eye, that silent groan of resignation, a visual: 'Not this _again_.'

For once, Merrill wasn't going to be dissuaded easily. "But I can..."

Between the heat, Cannor, and the fact that this argument was getting really, really old, she snapped. "Just _sod_ off Merrill," she said sharply, her gut already twisting with guilt as the colour drained from the elf's pretty face. "Go and play dress up with your little demon friends."

Bela made a good job of disappearing as Ariadne left the table and headed to the unoccupied one in the corner . She knew it was petulant, moving tables over a paltry spat, but she didn't want to make the situation any worse than it already was.

Luckily she wasn't drunk. She never seemed to be these days. Being drunk required a dedication she just couldn't seem to manage.

Had Merrill not listened to her? Did everyone else somehow think it was just _Anders_ who disapproved of Blood Magic? There was a line, and Merrill had crossed it. There were no two ways about that.

She seethed alone for a few minutes, drinking steadily until she heard Varric at her elbow.

"I wish you'd go easier on Daisy sometimes," he said, looking at her with an expression distinctly like annoyance as he pulled up a chair.

Was he really going to push this further? "Varric..." she warned.

But the dwarf shook his head. "I mean it," he said firmly. "She's a sweet girl, if a little naive."

Naive? The word made her slam her tankard down in irritation. "Varric," she said carefully, looking him square in the eye, "I put up with Merrill. In your rooms I'm civil enough to her, and I won't ignore her in conversation, but I meant what I said when I met her. She will never be my friend, and she will never be invited into my home as long as she remains a blood mage."

"Hawke..."

"I mean it, Varric," she said, silencing his protests. "Everything I am in this world comes from _one_ man. My father held no peace with blood mages, and neither do I."

He seemed taken aback by her mention of her father. It occurred to her that she'd never really talked too much about him. She pushed on, sensing her advantage. "We've been over this," she said, filling his tankard and hers from the jug he'd brought to the table. "I draw a line, and I don't believe that to be hypocritical. I have never suggested that I have a problem with how you deal with her, Varric. Perhaps you should do me the respect of returning the favour."

The dwarf paused, perhaps understanding the truth depth of her feelings on the subject for the first time. "I didn't mean to bring up such an old row," he said quietly. "You're right. Truce?" He held up his tankard in a friendly gesture.

She smiled, raising her own to tap the rims together. They drank deep.

"So what is it that _this_ one wants you to do?" he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of one of his plate-sized hands.

"Oh," she replied, smirking slightly. "Nothing much. Get his girlfriend out through the sewers and the both of them down to the coast."

"What about her phylactery?" he asked quickly. He was getting better at this.

She shrugged, taking another draught. "He says it won't be a problem."

The dwarf nodded appreciatively. "So when's it going down?"

"A month or so?" she replied casually, leaning back slightly in her seat. "Says he's waiting on the weather."

At that nugget of information, Varric frowned. "I can't see how it getting _hotter_ can be of any benefit to anyone."

* * *

><p>The rains came at last just a week shy of the festival of Funalis, all but drowning out the planned festivities in the Overcity. For the people of Darktown, the relief was as clear as the tears in people's eyes. Admittedly, with the ground hard, the inevitable flooding brought more than its fair share of problems, but with word beginning to get into the camps about the necessity of boiling water the increase in infections wasn't as drastic as Anders had originally feared.<p>

The rate of new infections slowed to a crawl, leaving him time to spare, and spare it he did, to reread Ariadne's letters to him over the past six months. Looking back at the way their games had developed, those simple turns of phrase that meant so much while saying so little, was a comfort beyond measure.

_Anders,_

_I was working at the estate today, and found some books. I know you don't have much time, but I don't want them. They might prove useful._

_-Ariadne_

Four lines. Four lines in the place of four words.

_I love you too._

Beneath the irony, the knowledge of which had made him chuckle for the whole afternoon, the meaning thrummed in his bloodstream, her response to his missive of the day before.

_Ariadne,_

_Clearly the Maker is trying to flush us all away. Hope you're not too soggy._

_-Anders_

More than anything else, he waited for the moment when he didn't have to code those words in silly little poems or meaningless chatter.

_I love you._

'More than I will ever have words to say.'

She'd sit there, her face soft in the firelight, curled into the crook of his arm like a kitten while he told her, told her of every moment that reminded him of her. From the way Perrin watched out for her brother, to the elf with the startlingly long tongue who'd come in with tonsil problems. She'd sigh and giggle in equal measure, fighting back tears as he told her of those times when he'd raged inside himself like a beast, so desperate as he was for her.

He'd take his box of unsent letters, and spread them out before her like a carpet over the bedclothes. She'd pore over them, leaning forward to pick through them, that soft little smile curling on her lips as her eyes picked out lines that touched her. He'd watch her, relaxed to the point of sleep against the pillows until, when she was done, she'd turn to him, those ruby eyelashes shimmering with tears, and press that soft, rosy mouth against him. Her tears would wet his cheeks as she embraced him, her soft hands straying into his hair as she pushed herself into his lap.

He could picture her bedroom, a scruffy mess full of books and scraps of potion-stained recipes. In the midst of her chaos, they would find peace in each other's arms.

Her gift, the pile of assorted medical texts beneath his desk, had been surprisingly insightful. Once again, he suspected that his little bookworm had done her homework. He'd even learned a new trick or two that would be useful once he was back on the battlefield, a way of prioritising healing over painkilling that didn't leave the patient vulnerable to going in to shock. Of course, the mere idea of going back into battle with her now that they were... Well, in all honesty the notion gave him the shivers. Just the thought of watching some dragon rake its claws down her back like it had that day at the Bone Pit, or some undead corpse swinging at her with a rusty blade made his stomach churn sickeningly.

'Maybe I could just chain her to the bed,' he thought playfully, idly shredding the corner of a spare scrap of parchment. 'I'm sure I could spin it so that she didn't _mind_.'

Justice had little comment on such thoughts, but it surprised him to note, as he did at such times, the complete absence of any disapproval or guilt. The change in his passenger's demeanour in the months since the quarantine was unnerving. While his ability to rage was nothing new, the way the spirit had rounded on Perrin had shaken him deeply. His initial amazement at the girl's capacity for acceptance had turned to sickened despair when he had realized the truth. Innocent of mages as she was, Perrin couldn't tell the blue light of his healing, and the monstrosity of his resident apart.

And no, he wasn't about to enlighten her.

Inherent violence and threatening innocents aside, something else was worrying the healer's thoughts. In these quiet moments, reading over his letters and thinking about his plans for their future, he was beginning to realize that something had changed in the way Justice thought about Ariadne. It wasn't that he was unhappy about the fact that the spirit no longer protested at his hopes for her, far from it. That side of things actually made certain... increasingly _essential_ activities a good deal easier, not to mention more pleasant. No, what he found unsettling was the way Justice reacted when Ariadne wrote of her assistance of other mages.

He shuffled through the papers before him on the desk, finding one that was suitable.

_I took a walk down by the Docks last night with a mutual friend. The ships really are staggeringly pretty in the moonlight. It was such a pity that it was the dark of the cycle. It was almost too dark to see anything._

And _there_ it was, that little tendril of triumph, of elation and something sorely near to pride that was decidedly not his own.

It was difficult. The more similar their thoughts were, the less he could tell what was him and what, precisely, was Justice. Even the fact that their thoughts were alike on this matter, that his night-time aches were dealt with without disapproval or complaint, was... _disturbing_.

'She _understands.'_

Was it Justice or himself who thought that way? That felt her passion singing through his blood like fire? When his body responded to her image, was it he or Justice that reacted, stroking himself into stifled release? Had he seen, as he had sometimes believed himself to be seeing, the faintest tremor of blue light in the hand clamped around his searing arousal? Could Justice feel like that at all?

'She is _purity. _She _is the beacon_ who will _guide us.'_

When had this happened? How had this shift in their balance gone unnoticed?

The epidemic. The quarantine. The heat.

But of course there was more to it than that. There was that moment back in Lowtown, and the disturbing possibility that he hadn't been the only one to realize how he felt for her as she declared her intent.

Justice still held the reins, as he'd undoubtedly proven back when he'd shouted at Perrin. Perhaps this uneasy peace between them had more to do with the absence of Templars in the quarantine than it did with anything else. Without their constant threat, without much more than the barest of mentions in Ariadne's letters, the notion of their threat had cooled somewhat. His task, for the present moment, was survival, was getting back to the surface and to the woman that was keeping him, and half of Darktown, alive. For the first time in years, anything else was secondary.

* * *

><p>"Sit <em>still<em>," she said firmly, a hand pressed down on his shoulder. "I promise you that this will help."

But the man before her struggled, trying to push away her hand. "It's cold," he murmured, his teeth chattering slightly.

The skin beneath his shirt burned hotly under her hand. "You have a fever, Carver," she said calmly, squeezing the excess water out of the cloth and back in the pan. She raised the cloth carefully, avoiding his clumsy, bearlike swipes to get it off her. "This will help," she said, pressing the cool rag to his burning brow.

He winced visibly, sucking air through his teeth in a deep, resounding hiss. His eyes widened, brightened at the sensation, the edge of the cold cutting through the first stages of his delirium.

"There," she said softly, wiping his brow carefully, before cooling the cloth again and making the same motions against his neck, wrists and forearms. "That should feel better."

The sound of wind down the tunnel brought the faintest of goose-bumps up on his skin, and she smiled in satisfaction. Leaving him momentarily, she took the pan to pour the contents away in the corridor.

She looked carefully at the rag in her hand. Still white, or as white as it ever had been. A good sign, a sign that things weren't quite as advanced as she'd feared. She returned to her brother, her voice bright and cheerful as she choked down the fire a little.

"Next time _that_ happens," she said, "we'll have to try and get your boots off. The blood vessels in the feet can provide an excellent means of drawing out the heat."

Carver shifted uneasily at the thought. "Get my boots off?" he repeated, the little returning colour draining swiftly from his face. "Won't that... hurt?"

She nodded, settling herself down in front of him, shielding him from the blaze's heat as best she could. "It will," she said honestly, "but getting them off you will make it far easier for me to treat you. Not to mention that cold water can be pretty numbing."

He seemed to accept that. "You're the healer," he said, smiling warmly across at her.

"I am," she said happily. "Shall I continue?"

* * *

><p>On the other side of the Gallows, the sun was barely halfway down its descent. Here however, the shadow of the towering stone cast everything into cold darkness. The visibility was slim to none, but according to their waif-like companion, this was all part of the plan. Also part of the plan, it seemed, was the rain that began to pelt down on their heads almost as soon as their dinghy pulled out from the sheltered bay just beyond the city reaches.<p>

There was a distinctly foul smell lingering in the sodden air as they ran aground in the shallow waters by the rocks beneath the prison walls. They tied the dinghy as best they could to a rocky outcrop, and waded through the knee-deep water. Cannor led them to a place where a pipe, big enough for a man to stand upright in, stood proud from the wall. The stench here was far stronger than it had been on their approach, and the water pouring out of the pipe made a distinctly suspicious splattering, almost fleshy noise as it hit the sea.

"Sewers," Ariadne grumbled, hugging herself tightly as she shivered in the pouring rain. "I really do know how to pick the glamorous jobs."

"Ah," Varric complained, waist-deep himself, "the sights and smells of Kirkwall!"

"Next time, dwarf," she replied irritably, "_you_ can do the planning."

He made a dismissive noise. "And miss out on your surprises? Oh no," he said sarcastically. "You can pick the activities and the destination, I'll bring along the charm."

She raised an eyebrow, shuddering at a particularly nasty sound from the pipe. "You make it sound like a date," she said teasingly.

"Maybe it should be," the dwarf replied in kind. "How's about a candlelit dinner for two back at my place when we're done?"

Ariadne chuckled warmly, chafing her arms with her hands. "Is that before," she asked, "or _after_ we spend hours soaking off all the shit?"

She could _hear_ rather than see the smirk. "Depends on how big your tub is, I suppose."

Cannor cleared his throat. They'd half-forgotten the boy was even with them. "If you're not too busy, I'll go ahead and send the signal."

* * *

><p>Half an hour later they were soaked to the skin with rain and brine and sewage, and there had been no sign. The rain was beginning to ease, and the light was definitely improving quicker than they would have liked. Varric was on the verge of saying something very rude to the skinny mage when a peculiar sloshing, thudding noise indicated that someone was making their way down the pipe.<p>

The boy stepped forward, his voice tentative. "H...hello?"

A large, bulky figure loomed in the pipe's entrance. Ariadne could feel Varric's hand on Bianca beside her, could feel her own magic tensing in her veins until she heard Cannor speak."Maryam?"

"Oh, Cannor!" the figure replied, in a surprisingly feminine voice. "You came!"

And with a heavy thud and a splash the woman, was out of the pipe and into the water with them. Before Ariadne or Varric could get a word in about the need for haste or quiet, their two companions had started kissing and the spectacle had overwhelmed everything else.

Even in the gloom of the Gallows' shadow, Ariadne could see that 'Maryam' _dwarfed_ him. A good head and shoulders shorter than his beloved, Cannor sort of disappeared into the woman's large arms. The light was improving fast, and it was apparent that things between the couple were rather... passionate. It was with some bewilderment that she noted the way their kissing, if it could be called that, sounded louder and wetter than the sewage-filled seawater sloshing around their feet.

"Well," Varric muttered, as Maryam mumbled something sloppy about Cannor being a 'big beast', "there's no accounting for taste."

Sort of mesmerised, Ariadne asked vaguely. "At what point does that sort of thing cross the line into _actual_ cannibalism?"

The dwarf chuckled. "Don't worry, Hawke," he said, hefting Bianca back onto his shoulder. "I think there has to be more blood, and a good deal less drool."

Her mouth was slightly open, her head tilted to one side as she said, "Remind me never to kiss anyone ever again."

"I'll send word to Blondie in the morning."

_That_ brought her around. "Now now," she said sharply, "let's not be hast..." Suddenly, she noticed a suspicious shine on Maryam's clothing in the rising light. "Wait a second!" she exclaimed, seizing Cannor roughly by the arm and dragging him from her with a worryingly suction-like 'pop'. "Your girlfriend's a _templar_?"

Dazed and confused, with his robes in a particular state of disarray, Cannor rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I just... knew you'd never help if you realised."

She paused, her grip slackening slightly. "I suppose there's never any harm in there being one less templar in the Gallows," she said, slightly bemused.

Behind her, Ariadne heard the distinctive sound of Varric putting Bianca's safety catch back on. "Works for me," he said.

The sun broke through the clouds just as the dinghy, with Cannor and Maryam aboard it, pushed off from the little beach they had left a few hours previously.

"Well," muttered Varric, standing down by the tide's reach, "I think it's fair to say I hope we never see either of them again."

Sitting behind him on the drying sand, Ariadne watched the dinghy until it was out of sight behind the rocks. This little spit of sand no wider than her front hall was, with the setting sun slanting shivers of light down onto the water. It was as beautiful as it was remote. Maryam and Cannor were grotesque to be sure, but the fact remained that they were starting their journey, and all barriers between them were gone at last. It was difficult to take.

The sound of the water was soothing, at the very low point of the tide. With the jagged rocks rising on either side of them, the beach seemed almost made for quiet conversation, for lazy, intimate evenings of the sort you very rarely got.

Back in the city, the revellers would be lighting the candles for the procession, holding their coloured lanterns aloft while the drum began its steady tattoo. Far beneath the Rinehardts and the De Launcet's, Anders wouldn't even know.

If the world were at rights, she'd be back at the festival with him, trying playfully to knock his lantern, or casting a sneaky flame to catch it alight, giving him the bad luck that only a kiss could undo. If the world were at rights, it would be the two of them in that boat together, escaping this madness once and for all, with the whole of their lives, and of Thedas, ahead of them. If the world were at rights...

"I'll bet you every bottle of brandy in my possession," Varric said, interrupting her thoughts, "that I can guess who you're thinking about."

If he was startled by the distinct, _wet_ sniff that greeted him in reply the dwarf made no show of it, looking at her kindly as he sat down next to her on the coarse sand. From a pocket in his coat he produced a handkerchief, and didn't even wince as she blew her nose on it, loudly.

"I just miss him, Varric," she whispered, resting her arms atop her knees. "Even if nothing were to come of it, if nothing ever happened between us again, he should be _here_. He'd understand what it makes me feel."

The dwarf nodded, his eyes framed with compassion. "I know, sweetheart," he said, opening his arm to her. "Come here."

* * *

><p>"We're still in the same place," he muttered, trying to ignore the twisting in his gut as he opened his eyes. "That's a development."<p>

"You're right," Bethany replied, knelt over him, a tapered hand withdrawing from his cheek. She looked up and around them, getting to her feet. "Things do seem to be a lot more stable."

He followed her back over to the railing, looking down into the hall. "The door is clearer," he said, watching it shimmer in the shafts of sunlight. "It's not as transparent."

The look on his guide's face was as happy as it was mysterious. "You're right," she replied quietly. "Not long now."

The rains eased again after Funalis, and the steam poured up from the ground like fog. That's when it all went wrong.

The abundant water and the heat were the perfect breeding grounds for the infection, and the numbers skyrocketed in a matter of days. The clinic's limit, even when it was fully staffed, was forty. More and more they were being forced to turn those less sick away with potions and instructions, even though it inevitably meant that they would return in agony less than a day later. Their clinic, their systems of operations were at breaking point.

And then Teller fell ill.

Dragged in bodily by his sister and dumped on a scarcely vacated bed without regaining consciousness, the boy was as feverish as the girl beside him was distressed.

"I _told_ him, ser," Perrin said, pacing fretfully beside the cot, "I told him everything you said. He promised that he'd never..."

He crossed the clinic briskly, shucking his coat and rolling up his sleeves. "He must have been thirsty, Perrin," he said firmly, making his way to the boy's bedside. "Accidents happen."

Between them, Teller tossed in febrile slumber, his brow ashen, his flaming hair plastered to his skin with sweat. Bent over his patient, Anders touched his fingers to the basin of water at his knees, a frost spell chilling the liquid right down. He dipped a rag into the bowl, using a spare hand to force open Teller's eye, prising the gummed up eyelid open with nimble fingertips. The boy's iris was turned up in his head, but Anders didn't need it. Pressing the cold cloth against the pressure point behind Teller's ear, Anders sensed dilation of the boy's pupil, and relaxed.

"He should make it," he said, releasing a breath that he didn't realise he'd been holding. As he began the task of boosting the boy's defences, he barely heard Perrin's stifled sob. As she worked beside him, stripping her brother to his smallclothes and using the water to bring his body temperature down, Anders saw neither the tears tracking down her face, nor the trembling of her fingers, so focused was he on the task in hand. It was only later, once Teller was resting more peacefully, that he registered the true extent of her distress.

Sitting beside her brother on the bed, Perrin had never looked so small, nor so defeated. The sobs that shuddered her narrow shoulders as she sat there, face buried in her hands, came from somewhere deep and dark. Those gasps, those scarcely stifled howls were the noises of a fearful child, and not the young woman he'd become so used to seeing. He wanted to comfort her, to reassure the girl that she was safe, and that her brother would be fine, but the clinic was full to bursting, and in the end it was Cora, a matronly elven woman, who ushered the girl away from her brother and back behind Anders' screens.

And so it was that later, as the sun was rising over Hightown, that Anders found himself without a bed. Cora never had had much skill with potions. The dose of sleeping draught she had given the girl, intended to do nothing more than relax her, had put Perrin into a sleep so deep that she could not be woken. It was nothing harmful, and with her brother in much the same state it was, more likely than not, the best place for her. That it left him sitting once again at his desk was also fairly advantageous, as the paper before him, the blank page waiting to be filled, could no longer be avoided.

He had stretched himself too thin, and in doing so, he had put everyone he knew in the Undercity at risk. From the moment the rains had stopped, he had known that this had been coming, that he should have acted, and it was his inertia that had caused Teller's condition, and Perrin's distress. This setback could cost them all _months_, but he had been too busy trying to handle the individual patients and hadn't seen the bigger picture.

He had promised her, he had promised her that he would be with her by Satinalia.

It was now almost Kingsway, and if he and the Undercity were to have any chance of seeing the year's end in the daylight, he had to act now. He drew the inkbottle out from the drawer, and filled his nib.

_Dear Ariadne,_

_I've made the decision, a fairly difficult one at that, to close the clinic. The quarantine is not enough. If we are to isolate the source, or sources of this infection, we must prevent people from moving about as much as possible. Getting the message out to people is, as always, the most difficult thing. It's been hard enough trying to persuade people to boil their water. If we are present among them perhaps that message might stand a better chance._

* * *

><p>The sunlight of late August streamed into the hall as she descended that morning. In such balmy warmth, there was little need for fires, but she could hear the crackles coming from the kitchen as she made her way towards it with tentative steps. The mansion had been her home for almost two months now, but she still found herself creeping around the place like a naughty child, unhappy to leave her bedroom in anything but a state of full dress. As usual, however, Magellan gave the game away, scampering past her and buffeting her against a pile of clattering pans.<p>

Bodahn started when he looked up to see her in the doorway, his spoon rattling angrily against the pan. "Messere Hawke!" he exclaimed, even as she rushed to try and becalm him. "My apologies for the delay in your breakfast."

Ariadne glared at her hound as he settled himself down by the dwarf's feet but the Mabari merely huffed and ignored her, looking eagerly up at the cook.

No matter how often she had tried to explain it to him, the dwarf still took it as a personal disappointment whenever he didn't succeed in bringing her breakfast before she had left her room. As kind as it was of him, she couldn't stand the way he fussed over these things, almost as much as she couldn't stand the way her mother encouraged it. Insisting that she was more than happy to sit in the kitchen, she took a place at the table and waited until the food was ready.

As he tipped the sausage and bacon onto her toast, Bodahn informed her that there was a letter waiting for her on the writing desk. She frowned at that. It wasn't like Anders to write to her so early, and it was more than likely a sign that he still wasn't sleeping properly. Still, the knowledge that it was waiting for her made her smile, and she looked forward to reading it as she slurped at her hot tea.

Her breakfast done, Ariadne took the rest of her mug of tea back into the entrance hall, preparing to curl herself up in the chair and puzzle out the latest messages. As she approached the table, however, it quickly became apparent that _this_ letter _wasn't_ from her favourite healer. Still standing, she put her mug down on the table and took the offending paper in hand. Unmarked, and sealed with the distinctive patterning of a well-placed frost spell, even the quality of the paper told her that this wasn't from Anders. She tried to shake her uneasy feeling, knowing perfectly well that plenty of people sent her letters. She opened it briskly, breaking the seal with a sweep of her thumb. The sight of the handwriting alone was enough to stop her cold.

_My friend,_

_A strange thing happened. Actually, come to think of it, several strange things. I'll tell you about them if you feel like stopping by. _

_I'll assume that you can figure out where I'm staying. I've had better accommodation, but these days, haven't we all?_

_See you soon, Tinderbug. _


	13. Tinderbug

**Chapter 13: Tinderbug (AKA: Old Things)**

It was morning by the time that Perrin woke, startling out of her drowse with a noise of distress. The effects of the sedative were still lingering, and she struggled to sit upright. Anders scrambled to help her, getting her to her feet and taking her to her brother's bedside.

A strong cup of tea, and a short while later, he was sitting beside her on a bench next to Teller's bed. Even more than when she had been sleeping the sight of her, awake but still vulnerable, reminded him forcefully of just how young she was. At sixteen years old, the burden of her responsibilities sat heavy on her narrow shoulders, and he cursed himself that he'd never seen it before. As she started crying again, tremors mingling with her shivers as the tears tracked palely down her face, he put his arm around her over the blanket that was keeping her warm.

"He'll be fine," Anders said kindly, squeezing her shoulder slightly. "We caught him early enough, you know that."

She sniffed raggedly, wiping her nose with her handkerchief as she held her tea in the other hand. "I'm sorry, ser," she whispered with a deep shudder. "I just... don't want to lose him too."

He rubbed her arm comfortingly through the blanket. "I know," he said.

After a time, he asked her the question that had been lingering in his mind ever since the day he had shown her Justice: "What happened to your parents?"

The girl's face darkened, but she didn't leave him a moment to retract his question. "They died, obviously," she said briskly, stiffening slightly. "Father was a seaman, his ship went down a few weeks before Teller was born. Mother tried to keep us together, but with five mouths to feed that was never gonna be easy."

He couldn't help his interruption. "Five?" he asked, his stomach twisting.

She nodded, watching closely as her brother shifted uneasily in his sleep. "Myself and Teller, my sister Aveline and the twins, Dane and Magellan."

The significance wasn't lost on him. "Your mother had a fondness for heroes?" he asked softly.

The smile that lit Perrin's face was warm, and her voice wistful. "She always had a soft heart."

"I'm surprised you're not called Ariadne then," he chuckled, shifting away from her to retrieve the teapot from their feet. "Wasn't Perrin Threnhold a despot?"

"It's short for Perrinathren, ser," the girl replied, holding out her cup as he poured. "It's an elven tale."

Anders smiled, filling her mug carefully. "And 'Teller'?" he asked, nodding towards the boy on the cot.

As he raised the spout, she drew the cup towards her nose and inhaled the scent deeply, a wry smile quirking her lips. She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "That's not his name," she whispered conspiratorially. "It's what he _does_. Send messages, tells people things."

Now he was intrigued. "What is it then?"

"Loghain, ser," she said, sipping at the surface of the rapidly cooling liquid of her second cup, "after the Hero of River Dane."

"I can see why he'd have been willing to give it up," he replied, mimicking her gesture, "but you were saying..."

She nodded, her eyes losing something of their lustre. "Mother got us running errands down at the market, and she joined the laundrywomen," she explained, tucking an errant rusty coloured curl back behind her ear. "Then Dane got the consumption. Mother couldn't bear to lose him, not when she'd fought so hard. She took a loan out, said we'd pay it back when he recovered."

And there it was, the note in her eyes that told him before she'd even said it. "But he didn't," Anders said quietly, seeing her glance over at Teller.

"No, ser," she said dully. "It took him six months to die, and then Magellan followed him a week later." She shrugged, seeming to notice the look of shock in his eyes. "They were like peas in a pod those two. I don't think they knew how to live without each other." She paused, half-emptying her cup with a deep draught. "The four of us couldn't earn enough to pay back on the loan, so it just kept growing, like one of them cancers people bring down here."

Perrin finished her tea, a slight furrow creasing her young brows. "And then the Blight started," she said bitterly, pushing the cup back into his hands with more force than was strictly necessary. "All them Fereldens meant more people wanting to work, so they cut back our coin. The people mother borrowed from... they started asking for it back."

He nodded, the story was all too familiar in the Undercity. "Were they mercenaries?" he asked, swirling the sediment at the bottom of his cup.

"Meeran's men," she confirmed, her lip curling into a sneer. "We _told_ her, told her she should have gone with someone better, that anyone was better than _Meeran_, but she wouldn't listen. I think mother thought he liked her." She sighed angrily. "She was wrong."

Anders couldn't mistake the shudder that crept through the girl's narrow frame as she continued. "My sister Aveline was a pretty girl," she said quietly, "one of the prettiest I ever saw. When Meeran comes to our house he says she's pretty enough to pay it off." Her voice diminished to a whisper. "We all knew what he meant." She paused, drawing a shuddering breath. "Mother wouldn't have it, called him every name under the sun, more or less." She swallowed hard. "So he gutted her. Right there on the floor of our shack."

He sat there, momentarily stunned, remembering vividly those words he had put to one side over six months previously.

'The sausage-looking bits.'

Her _mother_.

The girl's voice was cold, half-deadened as the words tumbled from her mouth. "I wanted to kill him," she said, "but I'd have died if I tried. Aveline stopped me. Told me someone had to stay and look after Teller."

Anders covered his face with his hands. "She went with him," he murmured, his voice little more than a groan.

Beside him, he could feel the girl nodding her assent. "She did," she replied, her voice shaking with anger and a terrible sadness. "We spent weeks on the Docks. Asked every whore in Lowtown, but we _never_ found her. She just never came back."

There were no words. "I'm so sorry."

Perrin snorted drily, though not angrily. "Don't be, ser," she said firmly, reaching out to take her brother's hand in her own. "Worse things happen every day in this shithole."

He sighed deeply, his gut churning as he peeked through the gaps between his fingers. The look of tenderness on her face constricted his throat almost to the point of pain. "I suppose you're right," he said, hearing another nurse call out to him across the room. "It's good you have each other."

"It is," she said, looking up at him with a tired, but fierce smile as he struggled blindly to his feet, following the summons. "He's not bad for a boy. Sometimes when he smiles he looks a bit like mother. It's nice."

He excused himself with a few muttered words, following the call across the clinic to the bedside of his next patient, a woman in her forties who had just arrived. Even as he scanned for vital signs, gave prognoses and set about healing what damage he could, his mind buzzed angrily with the face and the words of his youngest assistant. He forced himself through a slew of bodies and fevers and relatives, prescribing potions and cooling water as if he were half-asleep.

_Injustice_.

Not because Perrin and Teller were mages, but because they lived in a cruel, Maker-forsaken world.

What hope had they ever had? What hope could they possibly find here?

Once he had dealt with the backlog, the nurse Cora ushered him back behind his screens, to the bed he had been heading for over six hours previously. He threw himself onto his cot without bothering to untie his boots, feeling his pulse send tremors throughout his entire, exhausted body. He felt powerless and unspeakably weakened.

He had known Perrin and her brother for nearly a year, and until that day he had never asked her how she had come to need to work at all. In his relentless pursuit, his _obsession_ with freeing his fellow mages, he had never once asked where she had come from.

Cora, Lenwyr and the others, they had families, they chatted endlessly about their lives, but not _that_ girl. Not the one who had, in her own way, brought more into this room than any other. The worst part was that he had never bothered to ask.

Even if she hadn't realised, even if she didn't care, he would make it up to her. He would get Teller back on his feet, and he would see them both as safe and well as the Undercity would allow.

The thought gave him comfort, allowing him to fall at last into a fitful sleep.

-X-

The scene had changed, finding Bethany and her charge on the peak of some windswept moor, looking down over a town that she didn't recognize. The cold wind bit into her skin, such as it was. Before her the door shimmered just beyond her reach. "Anders?" she called.

He stood beside her, silent and unflinching, his face as cold as the stone beneath their feet. "I can't change it," he said, unmoving, "and I can't change the fact that I'm going to see it. Talking about it won't help."

-x-

Stood over her writing desk in a shaft of early autumnal sunlight, Ariadne closed the letter carefully, and tucked it into the pocket of her breeches. Trying to keep her expression impassive, she turned to Bodahn and asked him if she had any important plans for the rest of the day.

The dwarf looked up at her, confusion written over his ageing features. "No, messere," he said quickly. "Not that I can think of."

She nodded. "I'll be going out then," she said briskly, turning to the desk and snatching up a piece of parchment and her quill, tickling it against her nose momentarily as she tried to put her thoughts into words.

_Anders,_

_It seems miracles do happen after all._

Sealing it deftly, she passed it to Bodahn, who took it without needing a word of instruction. She dropped her purse and a few other essentials into her satchel, and headed for the front door. She paused on the threshold, hand reaching automatically for her staff where it rested against the carved stone jamb. She stopped herself, leaving it behind.

Ariadne felt naked crossing Hightown without its comforting weight against her shoulder. Her inner scolding voice, which sounded like a strange cross between her mother and Justice, was telling her with every step that this was the _worst_ idea she had ever had. She pushed onwards, however, taking the most direct route down to the Docks that she could manage.

Boarding the ferry was a hurdle in itself. Not only literally, in that she had to hop over the side of the boat, but emotionally. It represented, as leaving her home had not, the fact that she was embarking on a journey she had more or less sworn that she would never take again.

The journey was far quicker than she would have liked, and she knew it wasn't the choppy waters giving her stomach that queasy feeling. The shadows of the monumental stone edifice loomed too soon.

Ariadne hesitated again on disembarking, part of her kicking herself that she hadn't just waited a day or two to gather her nerve. Of course, she'd never have come then, but she could still feel angry. She followed the crowd of passengers into the courtyard without looking upwards. As the gates closed behind them, it took everything she had not to scream in blind panic.

She walked slowly across the courtyard, hoping against hope that she would find him waiting for her.

She didn't spy him in the courtyard, and decided to head for the nearest friendly face. Friendly faces all being relative when it came to Templars, she found Keran, standing under the colonnade to the left had side of the space.

"Messere Hawke?" he exclaimed as he turned to her. "I'm surprised to see _you_ again."

"I..." she stammered, clearing her throat slightly, "I'm here to see someone. I was wondering if you could fetch them for me?"

"You're here for a visit?" he asked, blond eyebrows raised in surprise, "Who are you here to see?"

She was on the point of answering when she was interrupted.

"There's no need, Keran," a voice said briskly, as a tall body inserted itself between them. "She's here to see me."

Carver.

Ariadne ignored him, side-stepping his bulk to address the bewildered young man. "I'm visiting a mage," she said firmly, all trace of nerves gone from her voice. "His name is Surana?"

Keran nodded, recognition in those blue eyes. "I'll fetch him for you, messere."

She bowed her head appreciatively as he turned and made his way towards the Mage's Quarters, pausing over a piece of imaginary fluff that had attached itself to her silken cuff.

"Surana?" Carver asked, taken aback.

She looked up at him the _other_ man she hadn't seen in the last seven months, her traitor brother. He had been caught off-guard by her appearance and even more so by her dismissal. She smiled amicably, as one might do to an acquaintance.

"Can I help you with something, Ser Carver?" she asked, pleasantly.

Dark brows knitted in irritation as he rounded on her. "You never replied to my letter," he said bitterly.

She shrugged, eyes drifting disinterestedly across the courtyard. "I didn't think you wanted a response," she said casually.

He caught her by the arm, his gauntlet cold through the silk of her shirt sleeve as he turned her back to face him. "You haven't even been to see me," he snapped.

She shook off his grasp with irritation, her eyes turning cold. "I've been busy helping mother," she replied coolly, a sneer curling her lip. "You remember what that's like, I assume?"

His nostrils flared angrily, and he growled his response, "Of course I remember..."

"Hawke?" a voice interrupted. "Is that really you?"

She turned on the spot, her excitement genuine even as it spurned her brother's anger. "Fionn!" she exclaimed brightly, throwing herself without a second thought into a fierce hug. She pulled back, hands still on the elf's shoulders as she looked into that familiar, angular face. "You're a sight for sore eyes," she said, barely able to restrain her grin.

Fionn smiled, his eartips and cheeks pink with a faint blush as he stood with his hands on her waist. "I never thought you'd actually show up," he said, disbelief framing his glass-green eyes.

She stepped back slightly, taking his hands playfully and pulling his arms wide as she made a show of admiring his outfit: the fur-trimmed robes of a Circle Mage. "And miss the chance of seeing you in a dress again?" she asked, her eyes wide with faux-scandal. "_Never_!"

The elf's eyes narrowed, giving her a flash of those dark, long eyelashes. "Still the master of that dazzling wit, I see," he grumbled, that twang of the Denerim alienage still present in his accent after all these years.

Pulling him past her brother, Ariadne and Fionn made their way to the furthest corner of the colonnade as casually as they could, with her teasing him about the length his hair had grown to ("And that _braid_! How positively _Orlesian_!") and him muttering words that sounded distinctly like curses in Old Arcanum. They stood together, looking out over the courtyard. Carver had taken it upon himself to patrol the perimeter of the columns, his forceful strides a perfect match for his petulant _sodding_ face.

Fionn watched with amusement, narrow lips twisting into a smirk as he fiddled absent-mindedly with the rich, chestnut brown braid at his right temple. "I have to admit I didn't recognise your brother at first," he said, nodding to the Templar who was stalking his way towards the steps.

"In fairness," she replied, wondering to herself if the elf wasn't a good deal taller than she remembered, perhaps even a little taller than Fenris, "he was sixteen the last time you saw him."

"Still," he said, his gaze shifting back onto her face as his eyebrow raised, "the glaring should have been a _dead_ giveaway." He settled himself against the wall, leaning up his shoulder so that he was close, little more than a handspan between them. "So how'd you get him on the inside?" he asked.

Her good mood failed instantly, and she shot her brother a harsh glance he couldn't see before she replied darkly, "I _didn't_."

Fionn frowned, a slight wrinkle creasing his brow just above the awkward kink in his nose. "You mean he..."

"Yes," she replied bitterly, "Despite everything."

He shook his head in disbelief. "But what about your sister?"

She sighed, leaning her head back against the wall. "Bethany died in the Blight," she said softly, feeling him stiffen beside her in surprise. "Mother, Carver and I made it over here alone."

She paused, appreciating the warmth of his fingers as he slipped his hand around her own. She smiled at him, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "What about you?" she asked warmly. "What's a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?"

That familiar smile curled the corner of his wide mouth. "A strange thing happened," he said teasingly.

She chuckled. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

He shrugged. "This time it actually might," he said, releasing the barest hint of a sigh as he dropped her hand. "I had this friend, who turned out to be a bit more of an ass than I was expecting. Also, a blood mage. Needless to say, it ended badly."

"Of course," she replied, eyebrow decidedly raised.

The elf turned his palms upward in a gesture of defeat. "The upside of it was a halfway decent distraction," he said, his green eyes darting to check on Carver's progress. "By the time the Templars realised that I was missing, they were too busy handling Uldred and his cronies to bother running after one lowly little elf."

"That's quite the silver lining," she said appreciatively.

"For me at least," he said, a hint of darkness in his pale face. "It's a pity that I didn't think about what would happen once the Blight was over. An old friend of mine showed up with my phylactery well and truly in hand."

She followed his look over her shoulder, saw the Knight-Captain standing in his usual spot to the right of the steps. "Cullen?" she asked, wide-eyed with surprise.

"You've met him then?" Fionn replied, ushering her to move along slightly as a group of recruits drew near. "A charming fellow, I always felt."

"For a Templar," she muttered, letting herself be guided towards the middle of the colonnade.

"For a Templar," he repeated, his angular jaw tightening with more than a hint of disgust.

"So here we both are," she said brightly, turning to face him.

He bowed his head slightly, a peculiarly formal gesture from the cocky bastard she'd known for so long. "I know I shouldn't have presumed, Hawke," he said quietly, his expression serious, "but I don't believe in coincidences. Three mages disappear from this place in the last three months, and then I hear that you're in town. I'm a relatively smart boy."

There was something slightly unsettling about the intensity of his look, an emotion she just didn't recognise in him. She paused for a moment, her expression faltering slightly as she realized what it was. _Fear._ In all the years she'd known him she'd never once seen Fionn Surana afraid.

In an instant the smile was plastered back on her face. "I'm glad that you remembered the 'relatively,'" she teased, punching him weakly in the shoulder.

But he wasn't going to be distracted by her humour. "Then you're not denying it," he said fervently, drawing a step closer to her.

She pulled back slightly, dropping her voice. "To my knowledge," Ariadne whispered carefully, "you didn't _suggest_ anything."

He glanced over her shoulder again, making certain that they weren't about to be heard. "You're still at work," he said. A statement rather than a question.

"It's different now," she replied, pursing her lips as much as possible to restrict the noise, seeing Carver approaching, letting her eyes flare slightly to tell Fionn, "but yes."

He took her meaning, his whole posture relaxing immediately into the ease of a friendly reunion. "So I hear you're living in Hightown these days," he said jovially. "_Quite_ the social climber."

Ariadne grinned, getting the gist of his suggestion as she saw her brother pausing out of the corner of her eye. "I try my best," she replied loudly. "Mother's _very_ proud."

"Sounds like she has every right to be," he replied, matching her volume. "Didn't I hear that you went on some expedition?"

"You mean to the Deep Roads?" she said animatedly. "I _did_ as a matter of fact. Dwarven architecture really is _fascinating_."

"I can imagine. Probably earned you a lot of gold too."

"In all honesty?" she asked, raising her voice a little louder as Carver turned to stalk off towards the other end of the columns. "_Yes_. Yes it did."

Fionn dared a glance back over his shoulder, seeing her brother's retreating figure. He turned back to her, his eyes taking on note of desperation once again. "You know what I'm asking?" he whispered.

She nodded sharply. "Of course."

She didn't need his hand on her forearm to sense the urgency in his voice. "And you _will_ help me?"

Again Ariadne nodded, flashing him a reassuring smile. "No question," she said firmly.

The facade went up again, fear masking itself with humour in the elf's face as Carver returned in the corner of her eye. "So what's that _like_?" Fionn asked teasingly, pushing at her shoulder like a playful teenager. "Being rich, I mean."

She laughed, a bright feminine sound. "Oh, it's not too bad," she said flirtatiously, her eyes sparkling. "I can have _whatever_ I want _whenever_ I want it." She heard the pause in her brother's distinctive step and raised her voice. "Mother's happy, of course, and I don't have to _humiliate_ myself in some soul-crushing profession," she finished, labouring the last few words particularly as she saw her brother retreating once again.

"I'll say..." Fionn replied, the mask falling from his eyes as Carver went out of earshot. "I have friends," he said quietly.

"I'll help as many as I can," she promised, squeezing his arm.

The look of relief that he gave her in reply brought a lump to her throat. "I knew I could count on you, Tinderbug," the elf whispered, almost on the verge of tears.

She left quickly, declaring outwardly that she didn't have time to chat, whilst promising fervently to keep in contact while they tried to formulate a plan. She ignored Carver as she passed back out through the gates, taking a childish satisfaction in hearing his angry grunt as she headed for the ferry.

As the boat pulled away from its mooring, Ariadne's hands began to tremble as the feelings she had been hiding from herself, as much as from her brother or friend, took hold.

Fionn Surana.

_Fionn. _Looking at her as if she were the last hope of a man on the verge of drowning. As if his trust in people had been so eroded that the act of contacting her had almost killed him.

This was the boy who had teased her almost to distraction, who had treated the Circle like a game, and never thought twice about thumbing his nose at anyone who tried to capture him. She had still seen that boy, but he'd been little more than a crumbling mask, a cracking surface revealing raw fear and pain beneath.

Her hands were shaking, her whole body was shaking with _anger_.

-x-

"Maker's breath," Carver groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Is there any point in this story where I don't come out looking like a complete _arse_?"

Ariadne's lips twisted into a wry smile, her eyes twinkling in the firelight as she sat opposite him. "I don't know," she teased, her nimble fingers ripping tough leaves into the basin on her lap, "you did the job of damsel in distress fairly well."

Her brother grimaced through the gaps in his fingers, sighing as she chuckled. "If I remember rightly," he said, relaxing back with an embarrassed smile, "_I_ wasn't the one who was distressed."

She laughed at that, dusting leaf fragments from her fingertips. "Fair play, sweetheart," she said, reaching for Anders' bag.

-x-

Teller was awake by the time Anders had finished briefing the nurses, sitting up in bed and sipping slowly at Cara's excellent plain broth. The distinct smell of the vegetables and herbs curled into his nostrils, making the mage's stomach growl hungrily as he checked over the patient in the next bed.

Behind him, Perrin chattered away eagerly to her brother, telling him about the plans for the nurses to assess and treat patients in their own communities in an attempt to isolate the infection and prevent it from spreading further. Her happiness warmed him, as had the enthusiasm with which the other nurses had accepted the plan. Using the clinic as the space to organise their efforts would allow them to attack the sources of infection directly and immediately, by pinpointing the infected wells and pools. Being present among the communities, rather than isolating themselves in the clinic, would also help them spread the message about the necessity of boiling their water. He was on the verge of reminding her that both she and her brother were welcome to stay until the boy was fully recovered, when one of the nurses called out to him from the door.

A man was waiting outside the clinic, dressed in a familiar shade of green armoured strapping.

'Athenril's.'

He was young, no more than Carver's age, and slimmer than most other smugglers seemed to be. His pale skin showed wan against his shock of ash blond hair, and there was something decidedly twitchy about the way he moved, as if he wasn't a man used to being out of doors.

"Are you the healer?" he asked, his voice a soft Starkhaven brogue. "The one who knows Hawke?"

Anders leant casually up against the doorframe, taking in the smuggler's appearance with a stern expression. "That depends on who wants to know," he replied firmly, looking pointedly at the dagger at the man's hip.

The young smuggler shifted uneasily, and something told Anders that he wasn't used to wearing armour as he fumbled with the pouch on his belt. "I've a letter for you," he said, anxiety furrowing his brows as he extended his hand to the mage, the piece of paper tucked between his finger and thumb. "We heard Teller was out of action."

Anders took the paper gladly, unable to hide his surprise as the man peered over his shoulder and waved at the boy in the bed. Pausing, the smuggler reached an arm around the back of his armour and pulled out a slim paper packet, which he waved at Teller before handing it to the mages.

"I thank you," Anders said, pausing to hand the packet to a distinctly _blushing_ Perrin, who exchanged a shy smile with their visitor before returning to her brother's bedside. "You can tell Athenril he'll be back on his feet in a matter of days."

The smuggler smiled warmly. "She'll be glad to hear it," he said brightly, pushing back his sweeping blond fringe with his fingertips. "She wants you to know she appreciates what you're doing down here," he paused, fidgeting slightly. "Helping the people and that."

Anders frowned, indicating the broken seal with the flick of a fingernail. "And yet that doesn't stop her from reading my letters," he said flatly.

"She's quite particular when it comes to Hawke," the youth replied, his lips twisting with some unknown nervousness. "As it happens."

The healer snorted drily. "I'm _aware_."

His young visitor paused, eyes flickering to the paper. "Aren't you going to read it?" he asked, a curious expression in his grey eyes.

Anders folded the letter, tucking it into the pocket concealed in his pauldron. "I'll save it," he said with a smile, noting the disappointment in the smuggler's face as the letter disappeared from view.

'_He wished to see how we would react.'_

'Athenril must have told him what to look for.'

Curiosity got the better of him. "Did you know Hawke?" he asked casually. "Back when she worked for her?"

The smile that lit the youth's face was all the confirmation he needed. "I did as a matter of fact," he said warmly, pushing nervously at his fringe again. "Always knew she'd do well for herself. Too smart for the rest of us by half."

'Too right she is.'

Anders chuckled, relaxing back against the doorframe. "You smugglers generally comment on how useful she is in a fight."

"She's that too, I hear," the smuggler laughed softly. "Not that I see much of that side of things."

Much as he had suspected. "Sensible man," the mage replied, suppressing the desire to snigger.

The youth seemed to catch his unspoken jibe. "Athenril's got plenty with the brawn," he burred, shrugging slightly. "_I_ tend to be the brains. Numbers man. You know how it is."

'_He is defensive,' _Justice noted, confused.

'Of course he is. He's jealous.'

'_Because of her letters?' _the spirit asked, still uncertain.

'Because of her letters,' Anders confirmed.

"Let's pretend that I do," he teased, flashing the smuggler a confident grin. "I'll smile and nod."

The young man's jaw tightened slightly. "I keep the books," he said firmly. "Someone's got to."

This time Anders didn't bother to suppress his amusement. "Athenril's got a _clerk_?" he chuckled, as something at the back of his mind began to niggle vaguely.

The niggle lingered as the smuggler excused himself, no doubt to return to his books, leaving Anders to snigger childishly to himself as he returned to his work. It persisted as he followed Cara to a patient who was complaining of a pain in her hip, nothing more than a trapped nerve caused by poor positioning, and only cut itself short when he remembered to open his letter a good half an hour later.

The ink on the paper stared up at him like a pool of drying blood. His own seemed to freeze in his veins.

_It seems miracles do happen after all._

Her words echoed in his memory, tolling like a hollow bell.

'_It would take nothing short of a miracle to make me step foot in that place again.'_

The Gallows. She'd gone to the _Gallows_.

-X-

She should have known that he would be angry. To be honest, she _had_ known, but nothing could have prepared her for the letter that was waiting for her on her return to the estate that night. Exhausted and more than a little worse for wear thanks to Isabela, it took her several seconds to recognize the handwriting on the page.

_Tell me you're alright._

And it wasn't the only one, the whole desk was littered with papers, a dozen scraps and scrolls in various states of composure, all begging her for reassurance.

While she'd been drinking the edge off her anger and _nerves_, he'd been tearing his hair out in fear.

Bodahn was tousle-headed and sleep bleared when she knocked on his door, but the urgency of her voice was enough to assure him that his help was necessary, and he readied himself for the run to the stair in the Lowtown slums without a second question. The note was short, and no doubt she'd have to do her best to explain herself tomorrow morning, but he'd know that she was safe enough for now.

_Anders,_

_Home again. Sorry if I worried you._

_-Ariadne_

Three lines for: 'I miss you'. Three lines that would tell him he was in her thoughts even if he couldn't be in her arms.

The papers on the table presented another problem in themselves. Even though he hadn't said anything beyond the usual, the sheer quantity of his missives must have caught Athenril's attention. She gathered the sheaf together with a sigh. He'd need another writing pad, and probably another ink bottle to go with it. She'd have to assuage his anxiety, etched into the papers in her hands with a shaking hand, without being able to tell him _anything_ that really mattered. She climbed the stairs slowly.

She had gone to the Gallows, yes, but it had been _Fionn_.

Of course, Anders couldn't know that. Didn't. She'd talked so little of Lothering, mostly because the loss was still more than she could bear. There had been so many bad things: Kester, father's death, the Blight and Bethany, but there had been _good_ things too. Things that he still knew nothing about. Fionn, with his crooked nose and his wry, cocky gobshite grin, had been a good thing.

The day when these barriers came down, when she could say the words that she had _never_ told him, even in a code, could not come soon enough. Perhaps once he understood that she loved him she wouldn't spend so much time reassuring him that she would be fine.

She frowned at the sight of her bedroom door wide open, and further still at the vision of her mother sitting in a chair by the fire, waiting. Trying not to flinch at the stony glint in Leandra's expression, she turned to her desk and deposited Anders' papers down on the top of it.

"You're up late, mama," she said, as casually as she could.

She got no response.

Unable to repress the sigh that welled up from within her, Ariadne took the chair from her desk and carried it across the room. Placing it carefully on the other side of the fireplace, she sat in it, and waited.

But Leandra said nothing.

Drawing a deep breath for strength, Ariadne looked up, meeting her mother's stern expression.

One ash-grey eyebrow raised itself in accusation. "The Gallows, Ariadne?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:** So the winner of my competition was new reader **AdamGontierIsMine**. To claim your prize please get in touch with me via the pm system! I'm really looking forward to writing something for you._

_In other news, new art can be found for Hindsight and specifically **this chapter** over on Deviantart! Check out:_

http:/ .com /#/d3j0bo8

_There will be more coming soon!_


	14. Adjustments

**A/N:** Dear internetters and general lovely people,

I am _so_ sorry. I never meant to be away for so long. Honestly, my life's just going a bit mental right now. I'll try my best to explain.

In 3 weeks and 1 day I am getting married. In 5 weeks I have to hand in a 20k word Dissertation on Samuel Beckett to my university in order to complete my masters. 2 weeks ago I moved house.

So, expect a few more delays in the coming weeks. I do have a full chapter ready for next week's update, and I am about 50% of the way through chapter 16 and 45% through 17. The likelihood of these getting completed before September, however, is rather slim.

After that I will be all yours, however, as I shall be wondrously unemployed! Huzzah! (Oh Maker please kill me now.)

I still love you and I still love Hindsight, I swear, but Andraste's tits RL is sitting on my head like a giant deranged baby creature.

Anyway, onwards with all the usual disavowals.

-Manda**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 14: Adjustments<strong>

Sitting there, imperious in her silken dressing gown, Leandra Amell's eyes were enough to quail even her daughter's fierce spirit. Wincing visibly, the girl sputtered, struggling to find words.

Her mother waved her attempts aside. "Don't lie to me, child," she interrupted, sitting almost impossibly upright, looking down on her eldest in just _that_ way. "I can read your eyes as well as your father's. Maker knows they're like enough." She paused, retrieving a piece of paper from the turned up sleeve of her gown and holding it aloft. "Carver saw you there," she said, pointing the paper accusingly. "He told me you refused to speak to him."

This was about _Carver_? Ariadne relaxed slightly, sitting back in the chair. "I was there to see someone else," she said, with a shrug.

But Leandra was not appeased. "I know," she replied, her lips pursed tightly. "I'm not going to ask who."

"That, at least," her daughter sighed, crossing her legs, "is a blessing."

Her mother snorted in irritation, her posture unflinching. "You know perfectly well why I am angry," she said sharply.

Ariadne couldn't restrain her own noise of frustration. "And you know perfectly well why I'm angry at Carver, mother," she retorted, crossing her arms defensively.

"That is..." Leandra snapped angrily, getting to her feet. She paused, relaxing somewhat. "I am not talking about your _brother_, Ariadne," she said softly, surprising her. "I know full well that you're both as stubborn as Malcolm was," she paced the floor, stopping momentarily to meet the girl's confused eyes, "and if I'm honest, yes, I choose your side in this. I am _here_, after all."

Ariadne frowned. Her mother _agreed_ with her ignoring Carver? Had someone knocked the woman on the head? "Then what's the problem?" she asked, unable to hide her bemusement.

Leandra returned to her seat, calmer, but still stern. "You met with a Circle mage," she said pointedly.

Ariadne nodded, sitting forward. "I did, mother, but I can _explain_."

"You don't have to," she replied, indicating the letter again. "It was the Surana boy."

Panic flooded the girl's body. "Carver wrote you so plainly?" she asked fearfully, hands shifting to grip her seat. "Does he _want_ me to be arrested?"

Her mother tutted dismissively. "The letter was _sealed_, Ariadne," she said reassuringly, "with your father's signet ring. Your brother is trusted in the Gallows."

The mage sagged visibly, sitting back in her chair with a sigh of relief. "Either that or he slipped it out with a merchant," she said.

Leandra shook her head, not unkindly. "Whichever," she replied softly, folding her ageing hands like worn tissue papers in her lap. "The fact is that I know."

"Then you know why I have to help him," Ariadne said quietly, pursing her lips as she watched the way her mother's fingers interlaced.

"I do."

Ariadne sighed irritably, throwing her hands up. "Then why are we _arguing_?"

"I have no objection to your actions," her mother said, the base of her thumb worrying at the loose skin over a knuckle, "just as I had none to your father's." The older woman paused, coaxing her daughter's eyes upwards with a tilt of her head. "But this is not Lothering, and you are not some _nobody_ farmhand and poultice-maker."

Blue eyes flared angrily as Ariadne sat sharply upright. "Father _wasn't_..."

But Leandra waved her protests aside. "I am talking about _appearances_, Ariadne," she said gravely, fixing her only surviving daughter with a pained and serious look. "Even before this morning, you were playing a dangerous game. If you truly wish to help people, then you have to think strategically."

The young mage sat back in her chair slightly, eyeing her mother with curiosity. "What do you mean?"

"There are rumours," Leandra sighed, leaning back into the armchair and steepling her hands, "whispers among the nobility of your involvement with the mage disappearances. They don't seem to know that you yourself are an apostate, but they do know that you took your friend Anders with you into the Deep Roads."

Now _that_ was alarming. "What exactly do you want me to do?" she asked, swallowing her anxiety as best she could as her fingers wrapped themselves tightly around her arms.

A pained expression crossed her mother's face. She looked almost... _sorry_? "I know you've enjoyed it, my darling," she said softly as she got to her feet, wandering over to the fireside, "being the rebellious daughter in Hightown, wearing your breeches and your shirts and chatting away to Seamus Dumar like an old friend while the debutantes glare jealously on." Leandra paused, glancing back over her shoulder at Ariadne with something very like sadness creasing her eyes. "Maker knows I haven't minded. I hated their frivolity enough myself when I was your age, but it has to _end_."

It took several seconds of silence for Ariadne to process what she was hearing. "End?" she repeated, dumbly.

Leandra nodded, turning sharply so that she stood silhouetted by the flames. "If what you are doing for these people is truly, as I suspect, more important to you than thumbing your nose at these pompous asses, then _yes_," she said firmly, taking a half-step towards her seated daughter. "You must end your games, and you must play _theirs_."

Ariadne couldn't help the way she winced at that, and she took the moment to shake out her arms, stiff from tensing. She arranged her hands in her lap, and looked carefully up at her mother's face, wreathed in the glow of the fire. "I'm listening," she said warily.

In a flutter of silk, Leandra returned briskly to her seat. "Court appearances," she replied firmly. "Public acts. Proofs of interest in other issues."

Ariadne snorted. "But I'm _not_ interested in other issues," she said harshly.

"Then you will win yourself no favours," her mother retorted, fixing her with those piercing eyes. "You're a smart girl, Ariadne," she said with a sigh. "You've read enough to know what happens to people who place themselves on pedestals with no defences."

The young mage nodded, unsettled. "They get knocked off," she muttered.

"Precisely, darling," Leandra said. Ariadne could tell that her mother wanted to reach out to her, and drew her seat closer to the armchair, letting the older woman take her by the hands. "And truly, Ariadne, is there nothing else that concerns you?" Papery fingertips caressed the knuckles of the mage's hand. "Is not the quarantine on your mind?" The younger woman looked up sharply at her mother, saw the glint of understanding in her eyes, the wry turn of her mouth. "Could you not far better help your dear friend by getting him out of his situation, by getting all of them out of their situations, than by sending hundreds of sovereigns into that pit?"

Her eyes widened. "You mean..."

Leandra smiled. "To enter court in your position you need an agenda," she said warmly. "You _have_ one. You've enough credit with the Viscount after saving his son to ensure yourself a place if you act now, before these rumours do any more damage to your reputation."

Ariadne fidgeted slightly, her lips pursing in worry. "But I..."

Those familiar hands snaked around her fingers, giving them a tight squeeze. "You've made a lot of friends here," her mother said softly. "_Important_ friends. Can you think of nobody who would aid you, in such a _humanitarian_ endeavour?"

Auburn brows furrowed deeply for a moment, and then relaxed as the older woman's meaning dawned on her. The young mage looked up into her mother's eyes with something very like awe. "How did I not notice how clever you are?"

"Because you were too busy watching your father make the teacups dance across the table," Leandra replied warmly, her eyes crinkling as she tucked a strand of her daughter's hair back behind her ear.

Ariadne chuckled. "_And_ we were living on a farm," she added. "Not exactly much political intrigue there."

The laugh that warmed her mother's voice was a wonderful unknown. "You'd be surprised."

Smiling and nodding, the young mage moved to get to her feet. "Thank you mother," she said, "I'll go at once."

The hands on her own pinned her to her seat. "You'll go to _bed_," Leandra said firmly.

"But..."

Again her protests were ignored. "It is a quarter to eleven," her mother said calmly. "_Anywhere_ you might go now would be unseemly of you."

"I..." her arguments died on her tongue. "Yes, mother," she said obediently. "Of course."

"And you will not go tomorrow," Leandra added, rising from her seat with a perfectly straight back. "We shall attend High Mass."

Ariadne nodded, smiling enthusiastically. "And if we're going to the Chantry anyway..."

"It does not do to court favours on the day of rest, Ariadne," her mother replied curtly, cutting her off.

The young mage's expression faltered. "Yes, mother."

"You and Varric have a meeting at the Merchant's Guild the following morning," the older woman continued, adjusting the sleeve of her gown so that it rested _just_ so, "but you appear to be free in the afternoon. In your position, _that_ is the moment I would choose."

"Yes, mother," Ariadne said quietly.

"I will need your measurements again," Leandra said, looking down at her daughter with a remarkable stillness in her worn face. "You must have more suitable attire."

Azure-eyes widened in a rapidly blanching face. The mage swallowed slightly. "You mean..."

"Yes, Ariadne," her mother said coolly, "I mean _dresses_."

The shudder that came over her was difficult to suppress. "Alright," she said, hardly able to meet her mother's eye.

But Leandra came to her, kneeling at her feet with a softness and earnestness in her aged expression that took the young woman's breath away. "Thank you, darling," she said, her voice half-choked with emotion. "I know this won't be easy for you, but I want you to know that letting me protect you..." she trailed off momentarily, refocusing on her daughter's face with a look full of fire and love and steely strength. "I'll never ask to know what you're doing for the mages," she said firmly. "I didn't ask your father and Maker knows it won't help me sleep better at night now." Crumpled paper hands fastened themselves around Ariadne's own, and she felt her own throat constricting. "Let me help you in this," her mother said gently, "and know that it will ease my mind."

* * *

><p>Anders looked up at his guide with something a little like wonder. "I never knew Leandra could be so..."<p>

The sparkle in Bethany's eyes was more like her mother's than the healer had ever noticed before. "Intimidating?" she asked, with a wry smile.

"_Forceful_," he corrected, getting to his feet and stretching his shoulders. He was in his coat again, which was a benefit in the chill wind. He brushed the pauldron tentatively, feeling the unique mixture of soft and scratchy under his fingertips. He turned back to Bethany with a smile. "I suppose I only really knew her once Ariadne had taken charge of things," he said, teasing the tip of a feather between his thumb and forefinger. "It seems strange that it was a scolding that made her take up the reins."

The girl chuckled. "Does it?" she enquired, tilting her head to one side. "Our parents believed in equipping us for the real world." She shifted slightly, her eyes darkening. "Father always said that freedom didn't come cheap."

Anders nodded. "And the price was that it wasn't the kind of freedom she wanted," he replied bitterly, stepping past her to the head of a narrow path that wound down through the gorses towards the town. The path was narrow and steep, but his boots were far better than any he'd had when walking here as a child.

"No," Bethany said as she walked past him, taking her first, surprisingly confident steps between the thorny bushes. "I don't think it ever was."

He followed quickly, his feet taking the familiar steps with ease. "And yet she could have had _some_ of it," he said angrily. "If she'd just gone with him she could have..."

"You know that wasn't a choice," she interrupted, looking back up at him with compassion, her scarf a splash of scarlet amidst the grey-green gorse. "If nothing else she felt duty-bound to mother."

He hesitated, his lip curling as he scuffed his boot against the rough surface of the path. "I suppose you're right."

Brisk steps brought the guide back up the track, and Bethany took his hand between her own. "Don't talk like that," she said, her words as sharp as her touch was gentle. "I know that you understand what it means to have family."

The town behind her blurred slightly in the fog. He met her eyes warmly, squeezing her fingers in his own. He smiled softly. "Stop reading my mind, _witch_."

The breeze blew a curl of hair across the girl's face. The hand that tucked it back could have been her sister's. "It's my job," she said, smiling as the world faded out of sight.

* * *

><p>The paper in his hands was shaking. It didn't seem to be able to stop.<p>

Standing over him, the girl shifted nervously on her feet.

"Are you alright, ser?" she asked after a moment. "I saw the blue light behind the curtains earlier and I thought..."

Anders breathed deeply, pressing the letter and his hands down flat onto the surface of the desk. "I'm alright now, Perrin," he said quietly, letting his eyes close. "I'm sorry if I worried you."

Again she fidgeted, her woollen dress rustling noisily by his ear. "Were you angry?" she asked.

He sighed, pressing his fingertips deep into his eye-sockets. "No," he said. "Not angry. I was... _afraid_."

He could sense the way she tensed at that, could almost feel those brown eyes widening in confusion. "Why?"

Sitting back in his seat, Anders looked up into the concern-laden face of his youngest nurse. "I thought that Hawke was in danger," he said, feeling the shudder of fear creep up from his stomach.

"But she's alright?" Perrin asked quickly.

"She's fine," he said, nodding. "_Says_ she's fine." He ran a hand over his stubble. "I don't know what happened."

The girl paused, sitting herself up on the desk. "So she wasn't in danger?"

"She was," he replied, hearing the groan in his voice as if it came from someone else. "She most certainly was."

He was looking idly at the backs of his hands, scuffed from where he'd been hitting the wall, when he realized that Perrin had put a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her, his resolve softening as he saw the tenderness in her young face.

His breath was ragged. "I've never felt so powerless," he said, pursing his lips together. "She could have been taken... killed... made _tran_..." He stopped himself, feeling his stomach churn and his pulse flare at the thought of her: those vivid eyes wide and blank, her features expressionless, her soul empty. Nothing left. No heart to even love him. Gone forever and yet left to live as a mockery of herself. "There'd have been nothing I could do," he said, his voice cracking as he put his head into his hands.

She squeezed his shoulder as he shivered with the nausea of it. "I'll fix you something," she said gently. "Will ginger do?"

He nodded shakily as she pushed herself off the desk and made her way to the crate behind him. He listened as she uncorked bottles and poured things into a cup. "Put a touch of lyrium with it," he suggested quietly. "Fighting Just..." He stopped himself. "Fighting the blue light eats into my magic."

A minute or so later a cup was placed before him, a steaming infusion of stomach-calming spice and replenishing lyrium. He inhaled its vapours gratefully, the scent alone bringing his pulse right down.

Perrin hovered beside him, smiling as his expression cleared. "When I saw the light, I thought Benny must have said something to upset you," she said cheerfully.

He snorted slightly. "No, it was the..." he paused, frowning up at her. "_That_ was Benny?"

"He works for Athenril."

"I know that," he replied, more than a little surprised. "He said he was a..."

Something clicked.

"_Pencil-pusher_," he murmured, looking up at her brightly. "Varric called him a pencil-pusher. I never realized he meant a _clerk_." He laughed a little, sitting back in his chair. "No wonder the boy was so jealous."

"Jealous?" she asked, looking down at him in confusion. "Of you, ser?"

A smile twisted the corner of his mouth as he met her eyes. "Yes, Perrin, of me."

"Why?"

"Because..." he hesitated, wincing slightly. "Maker why do I find it so hard to tell you these things? You're more than old enough to understand them." He drew a breath, tried to give his voice a matter-of-fact tone. "Benny and Hawke were in a relationship... sort of."

Rusty ginger brows knitted together in a frown. "Sort of?" she echoed.

Anders winced again. "It uhh..." he paused, wondering if he had the nerve to tell the girl that the woman he was passionately in love with, who she was certain he was going to _marry_, had had a one-night stand. Had had a one-night stand with the young man that, judging from the way Perrin had looked at him, from the way she fidgeted now at the mere mention of him, the girl nursehad a bit of a thing for. He didn't. "It didn't last very long," he said, chickening out.

"And he's jealous because now she's with you?" she said, that tiny hint of woundedness in her expression confirming his suspicions.

"More or less," he said, shifting slightly in his seat.

She cocked her head to one side, looking at him with undisguised curiosity. "Is _that_ why Athenril is angry with her?"

Perrin really did like to ask the awkward questions.

"In a manner of speaking," he said uneasily. "It's... complicated."

The girl left soon afterwards, leaving Anders to sip his infusion and think on the strange coincidences of life.

Benny, somewhere between the girl and Ariadne's ages, was attractive to both of them.

'In an extremely limited and discontinued fashion on _her_ part, of course.'

He, just those few years older than his dear correspondent, was attractive to her alone.

'At least I assume she finds me attractive.'

'_Her pupils dilated when we touched her. This indicates attraction.'_

'Stop noticing these things. Anyway, she's in love with me. She tells me so all the time.'

'_With us.'_

'Me.'

'_She has only known you and I as one. She would not have appreciated you as you were.'_

'You can't know that.'

'_But _you_ do.'_

The point _was_ that a handful of years could make a lot of difference. At twenty-seven, Perrin looked to _him_ like little more than a child, when she herself could look at Ariadne, now twenty-two, as a rival.

Of course, there was the other problem.

Ariadne would be the first to admit that fancying smugglers, even the nice ones, wasn't exactly ideal for an impressionable young girl.

'Not that anything about life in Darktown is ideal.'

'_She is not a mage.'_

'That doesn't mean she doesn't have problems, that she isn't _vulnerable_.'

And there it was. That little flickering spark of something very like fatherhood, or what he imagined such a thing would feel like. More than just concern, he felt a genuine and physical need to protect this girl. Not only from others but from _herself_.

Whether there was anything he could do about it remained to be seen.

* * *

><p>So-called 'discussions' with the members of the Merchants' Guild were guaranteed to put her in a foul mood, even with Varric's helpful interventions, and today was no exception. In the hazy, humid atmosphere clinging to Hightown like a sweaty woollen blanket, Ariadne felt ratty, bothered and downright dirty. Beads of perspiration budding on her skin stuck her blouse to her collarbones like tissue paper to glue. Her hair felt tangled and lank and everywhere <em>itched<em> in the heat and damp.

"But the duties alone will cost us hundreds of sovereigns," some greying bearded nincompoop whinged.

"And the paperwork will take us months!" another interjected, rousing his fellows into a roaring of grumbles and griping. It was all Ariadne could do not to groan out loud in frustration.

The skirt was not helping.

In fact, the skirt was essentially to blame.

"Now, now, gentlemen," Varric said, rising from his seat as he attempted to placate the dwarves.

The rogue's calming words fell on deaf ears, literally _and_ metaphorically, and Ariadne's mood continued to sour. Attempting to rearrange her skirt under the table made no difference whatsoever.

Heavy and woollen, the only item in her mother's wardrobe that came close to fitting her was ugly, bulky and uncomfortable in the extreme. Not to mention that in the years since she had worn one, she had all but forgotten just how weird the damn underclothes were. The chafing alone was _unbearable_.

The meeting ended, as so many of these blasted affairs did, fruitlessly. For once, however, getting back on her feet was a blessing, as she shook the creases out of the fabric and her skin in equal measure.

"You... uhh... run out of clothes, Hawke?" Varric asked, clearly confused by the sight of her awkward shuffling.

"Mother thought it was more appropriate," she replied curtly, watching the last of the other merchants leaving the hall from the corner of her eye.

The dwarf leaned up against a pillar beside her, raising a solitary, sceptical eyebrow. "And you were alright with that?" he asked, disbelievingly.

Ariadne shrugged. "Not exactly," she said with a heavy sigh.

* * *

><p>Half an hour later, Varric and Ariadne parted company at the gates to Chantry gardens. On the directions of a young sister near the entrance, the young mage followed the path between the roses and verbena, and found the person she was looking kneeling in one of the beds. She cleared her throat.<p>

Soiled and flushed with his labours, the prince got to his feet with some considerable embarrassment.

"My lady Hawke," he said, inclining his head courteously. "I must admit myself surprised to see you here."

As his blue eyes took in her appearance, Ariadne had to bite back her mortification. Swearing to herself that she would learn enough about fashion to ensure that she never needed to let her mother pick a skirt for her again, she curtseyed. "Your Highness," she said politely, "I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time."

* * *

><p>On the third day after Ariadne had gone to the Gallows, Teller was ready to get out of bed. His recovery was remarkable, but then, as Anders was beginning to notice, Teller was something of a remarkable boy.<p>

Bright and amiable, with a natural head for numbers that made him the envy of the other messengers, the ten-year-old was, on better acquaintance, every bit as compelling as his beloved sister. His popularity among the smugglers only really became apparent as the days wore on, with everyone from the lowliest minion to the highest handler under Athenril popping down to wish him well or leave him with some treat. For an entrepreneur, the way he had given these gifts away among his fellow patients was surprising, and that, almost as much as anything else, had drawn the mage's attention.

Cleaner than he had been in several years, his hair shone like spun sugar against his pale skin, giving his face a lightness and a sweetness that showed him truly as his sister's brother. Talking to his fellow patients too, he showed the same warmth and gentleness that made Perrin the excellent nurse that she was. The more time he spent with the boy, the more Anders realised that it was only the difference in their ages, and thus the circumstances of their formative years, that meant that Perrin was the only one of the two to be literate.

All things considered, it left Anders with only one option.

Having pronounced the all clear, the healer left Cara to help the boy back into his cleaned and expertly mended clothes, and took his sister back for a cup of tea by the brazier at the back of the clinic.

Perrin looked understandably suspicious as Anders poured the tea. He'd rearranged the makeshift room slightly, so that the cot was no longer against the back wall. Sitting on either side of the table, which he had unmistakably _cleaned_, this was by far and away the most formal they had ever been. She peered into her cup, twiddled a frizzy lock of her rusty hair and generally fidgeted as she waited for him to speak.

The awkwardness was mutual. Trying to put into words the idea that he had been mulling about in his head was far more difficult than it had any right to be. So instead he stirred his tea, and stirred the teapot, and fiddled with a piece of fluff on his sleeve.

And then they both started talking at once.

"How would you..."

"Please ser I..."

"...feel about..."

"...don't want to..."

"...moving in to the clinic?"

"...have to leave and I..."

"What?"

"_What?_"

The girl's brown eyes were wide and staring. He swallowed his nerves, and smiled at her.

"Your brother's recovered well," he said, as matter-of-factly as he could, "and it seems like the smugglers won't work him too hard once he's back out taking messages, which is a good thing. But you'll still be heading back to that Fereldan camp every night, and I know that hasn't always been easy."

Perrin shifted unhappily in her seat, tilting her cup towards her with careful fingers. "It's not too bad," she said, almost defensively. "When Teller's around people realize who I am. I don't get bothered."

Anders sipped at the surface of his tea, watching her closely over the rim of his cup. "But you do get bothered when he isn't," he noted quietly.

She didn't look at him. "Sometimes," she muttered darkly.

He placed the cup down on the table, and laid his hands on either side of it. Leaning back in his chair, he drew a steady breath. "When I first took you on, Perrin," he said slowly, "I realised that you were in a difficult situation. The whole Undercity is dangerous, now more than ever." He paused, lacing his fingers together and pressing his knuckles against his chin. "I had hoped that one of the other nurses, maybe Cara or Lenfyr, would be able to keep an eye on you, but they have their own families and times aren't exactly getting easier." He looked at her directly, unable to stop himself from smiling at the fierce look flashing in her eyes. "I know you can look after yourself," he said patiently, "and you have every right to do so. I'd just feel easier if I knew you were safe at night. The last thing I want is for anything to happen to you." He took up his teacup again, and blew on the surface of its contents. "The clinic is closing," he added thoughtfully. "There's more than enough space for you and Teller to stay here now that we'll be treating patients in their homes."

He took a draught of his tea, the aromatic infusion washing over his palette with just a hint of bergamot.

Her reason for protesting was not one he'd anticipated. "But the quarantine won't last forever, ser," she said softly, frowning down into her teacup. "You'll have patients back again when the cholera's gone."

He tried not to smile. After all, she hadn't said yes. Then again she hadn't said no. Then _again,_ she'd only quibbled because she didn't think it could be a permanent arrangement. "You're right," he replied, smiling, "and I have an idea for that too." He pointed over her shoulder, and she swivelled in her seat to follow his line of sight. The wall was almost unremarkable, and all that removing his bed from alongside it had revealed was that the wooden panel that made up two-thirds of it was loose at the bottom. "That plank is actually covering up a door," he told her. "There are rooms back there. Dusty and full of junk, yes, but with a bit of effort they'd be clean enough."

She hesitated as she turned back to him, her mouth twisting with some unknown emotion. "I don't know what to say, ser," she muttered, eventually, her eyes dark and her hands fussing at the rim of her teacup.

He reached out, taking her hand in his fingertips and giving it a small squeeze. "You don't have to say anything now," he said warmly. "You can think about it for as long as you like."

* * *

><p>"So these lessons of yours," Carver asked with a barely suppressed smile, "what exactly did they consist of?"<p>

Ariadne chuckled. "They weren't _lessons_, Carver. I would go to him for advice about etiquette, he would tell me what he knew of the nobles, the customs. That sort of thing."

A mischievous look twinkled in her brother's eye. "What?" he teased. "You mean there were no vocal exercises? No practising of elaborate dances?"

She shook her head. "The court held salons, not balls," she said firmly. "I was no blushing debutante and I needed to be politically respectable."

"You can't tell me mother didn't try to marry you off," Carver replied, his grin positively infectious in his pale face, "I know her far too well."

"Oh that she did," Ariadne admitted, "as much as I tried to persuade her not to. In the end I had to remind her that I needed some time to myself if I was going to get on with my _actual_ business."

Carver nodded. "All too easy for her to forget that, I suppose," he said knowingly.

Ariadne shifted slightly, rearranging the blankets beneath her and resettling herself back against the wall. "Of course," she replied with a smile, "wishful thinking is a powerful thing."

Leaning over, she took her brother's arm by the wrist and felt his pulse. She tried to remain casual, but she could feel the shift in the tempo, and the way he stiffened at the contact. He was still doing well however, and she nodded happily. "Sebastian was, as I had thought he would be, incredibly helpful. If it hadn't been for him things would have been very different."

The look of anger in her brother's eyes choked her. "And that's supposed to excuse him?"

Her fingers lingered on his arm, and she rubbed the back of his hand soothingly. "No," she said, hearing the strained tone in her voice as if it belonged to someone else, "but you have to remember that he was... _provoked._"

Carver's lip curled in disgust, and she left him to his sullenness while she moved to check on Anders once again. The mage was peaceful, his mouth half-open and his breathing slow. The touch of her hand to his cheek showed her...

'Cleaning?'

Dust and debris littered the rooms at the back of the clinic. They were being reopened, brushed and tidied and scrubbed. A small heap of belongings appeared in the smaller room: a book of fairy tales and an old doll. Small hands washed vegetables from the baskets she recognized as her own. A chewed fingertip ran along beneath the words of an old story and a young voice spoke haltingly.

_but in... the m-morning the... g-girl was... gone._

The simmer of stews, and the clink of bottles sorted into crates. A tuneful hum as a needle dragged through fabric, mending tears and patching elbows.

And then the vision faded, retreating to a windswept moor, and a path framed by gorse bushes, and a flash of scarlet that shocked her back to reality.

"Are you alright?" Carver asked, and she could hear her own gasp echoing off the walls.

She got sharply to her feet, shaking herself. "I... I'm fine," she said hurriedly, "I thought I saw..." She shook her head. "It was nothing."

Eyeing her brother carefully, she crossed the room in a pair of strides, and knelt before him.

"You know," he said, reaching into the pile of his armour padding beside him, "you aren't the only one who kept their letters."

As he handed her the paper, the wheezing, rattling sound of his breath seemed to deafen her. She flicked it open, seeing the words in her own hand.

_Dear Carver,_

She looked up at him in shock. He'd kept _this_ letter. Of all the ones he could have had with him, so many that she had written later, and he had kept...

_I don't want to answer your letters, and I don't want to see you. This obviously won't surprise you, given my lack of response thus far. _

_Please know that I am not ignoring you. I simply do not want to argue a fruitless point. _

_You have made your decision. I cannot, and I will not torture myself over this. I must, as you must, get on with my own life._

_-Ariadne_

She chuckled. "That's a fair bit more mature than I remembered it being," she said softly.

Carver smiled. "You couldn't have told me so at the time, but you're right," he sighed heavily. "I shouldn't have ratted on you to mother like that. It was a selfish and spiteful thing to do."

His sister merely shrugged. "And it probably saved my life," she said.

* * *

><p>PS:<p>

_Reviews much loved and appreciated, as always._


	15. Improvements and Frustrations

**_A/N:_** Hi all!

So - next week's chapter 16 will be my last post before I'm away for a few weeks. When I get back there will be the completion of vital jobs:

I will put links in each chapter to make reading through easier!

I will also upload to AO3 for those who prefer it!

Anyway - much love and disclaiming, as always.

- Manda

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 15: Improvements and Frustrations<strong>

It was a mild Harvestmere that year, and the Undercity became almost bearable, or as bearable as it ever was. With careful management, the number of cholera cases slowed to a trickle, with fewer than a handful of patients being diagnosed each day. The decrease in general chaos meant that the smugglers were getting more food to the people. Word from above ground was that some upstart young noble was organising a petition to bring down the barricades, and many people were beginning to hope that the situation would at least improve before the end of the year.

Of course, those who knew who the upstart _was_ were considerably more hopeful, and on this morning in particular Anders was feeling very hopeful indeed.

As he handed out the day's potions, he couldn't help but fidget, leaving it up to Perrin to make the notes on who they would need to would visit later. Her handwriting was getting better, but her spelling still left a little to be desired:

_4 bedriden, 1 suspected in the Mines_

_6 __bedridd __bedriden, 4 suspected with the Refuges_

_9 bedriden, 3 suspected in the Suwer Tunnels, one ded_

If he'd been paying attention he would have corrected her.

He wasn't.

"Do you think she's home yet?" he asked brightly, leaning forward and casting Perrin's ledger in shadow.

"No," the girl said flatly, continuing her work without even looking up.

He frowned at her. "How do you know?"

She sighed, meeting his eyes with a wearied expression. "Because it's eight o'clock," she said grumblingly. "She hasn't even _left_ yet."

* * *

><p>Outside of her mother's bedroom window, the clouds hung heavily over the Hightown rooftops. Even though the weather was turning slowly, the threat of the coming winter loomed darkly like the rain that would be falling by midday. A few sparse-feathered, windswept pigeons huddled together on the sill. Beneath Ariadne's feet the stool wobbled slightly.<p>

"My apologies, messere," the dressmaker said, bent double over the hem of her robe.

"I wish you would reconsider the dupion," her mother complained irritably from behind her, forcing the young mage to turn her head awkwardly. "It is a good deal finer."

Ariadne sighed, facing forward again at a sign from the dressmaker. "I am _not_ going to wear dresses that will crease, crumple and tear if I even _look_ at them, mother," she replied plainly, looking down at the way the skirt flared out with a half-smile of approval. "No dupion, no georgette and no shot silk."

But Leandra was not a woman to be put off easily. "Then how about an underskirt?" she persisted, crossing the room to take a petticoat from the samples on the bed. Moving into her daughter's line of vision, she fluffed the frothy netting. "Something to give it a bit of a lift?"

The expression of surprise on her mother's face as Ariadne glared at her could mean only one thing: she had succeeded in looking almost _exactly_ like her father. "I'm a businesswoman, mother," she said coolly, raising her arms at the dressmaker's murmured instructions, "not some preening _ingénue_." She twisted slightly from side to side, glancing down to watch the fabric shifting readily, neither pinching nor resisting. "The mohair will do me very well for the daytime," she continued calmly, "and I won't have to worry about tripping over myself before the Viscount."

Her mother stepped closer, expression softening slightly. "And for the evening?" she asked, brushing absent-mindedly at the silken cuff at her eye level. "It _is_ less than a month until Lady Harimann's salon."

Ariadne smiled warmly down, reaching out to stroke her mother's cheek with the back of a knuckle. "And I _still_ have the blue gown I bought during Kingsway," she replied, rolling her eyes as Leandra sighed. "The colour may not be in season, but it will do _well_ _enough_."

The seamstress struggled to her feet between them. "If you'd be so good as to step out of the gown again, messere," she said, offering a hand to help Ariadne down from the stool, "I'll just nip that hem up and you can have it tomorrow."

Stepping down carefully, the young woman nodded appreciatively. "And the others?"

"The winter day-gowns will be with you before the month is out, my lady," the dressmaker replied briskly, taking the petticoat from Leandra and heading for the bed. "If there is anything else you require, you can be certain to let us know."

"I don't think there will be," Ariadne said quickly, moving behind the screens and beginning to slip out of the dress, "but thank you."

She worked at the series of tiny buttons as her mother paid the dressmaker for her time. Pooling the mohair at her feet carefully, she stepped out of the dress and draped it over the screen so that it could be taken. She was on the point of refastening her own robe when she heard the seamstress leaving. "Well?" she asked, as the door to her chamber clicked shut.

But Leandra said nothing.

Ariadne sighed, emerging from behind the screen as her fastening fingertips reached the nape of her neck again. Leandra was standing by the window, slightly silhouetted against the iron grey skyline.

"You know perfectly well what I'm going to say," the young mage said softly. "I will not start parading myself around for the sake of advantage." She smoothed at the silk panelling over her collarbones, settling the neckline of her robe against them. "I will earn my support on my own merits, nothing more."

Her mother's sigh was, if possible, deeper than her own. "And would it hurt you so terribly to attract a suitor?" she asked, as if she knew the question was hopeless.

"Mother..." Ariadne warned, drawing level with Leandra so that they stood together in the frame of the window.

A knock sounded tentatively at the door. "Messere," Bodahn said quickly, addressing Ariadne directly as he entered, "the Prince of Starkhaven is here to see you."

The mage nodded. "Thank you Bodahn," she said, unable to restrain the fluttering of nerves that quickened her pulse. "I'll be right down."

The dwarf nodded and left quickly. Turning to her mother, Ariadne drew a steadying breath. "Wish me luck?" she asked, hopefully.

Leandra's smile warmed her in a way that only a mother's could. The older woman reached up and cupped her daughter's cheek, her soft papery skin cool against the mage's own. "Always," she replied tenderly.

Ariadne smiled in return. Things were improving.

* * *

><p>Things were definitely improving down in the clinic. With Perrin and Teller's help, Anders had succeeded in clearing out all five of the back rooms. The main chamber had become their de facto living space, with its own brazier and a large wooden table and chairs. Here, in the evenings, Teller's studies had gone as far as writing, and Ariadne's supplies of paper could hardly come fast enough as words gave way to silly doodles and drawings. When he wasn't pretending to scold them for getting ink all over the table, Anders was teaching them how to make paper gliders or showing Teller how to flick tiny balls into his sister's hair.<p>

Four doors led off the room. On the left hand wall Teller's sat just beside Perrin's, which was distinguished by the drawing of the raggedy cat pinned to the frame. On the right side, doors led to Anders' room on the one hand and the storage cupboard on the other. Having four walls and a ceiling around his bed was a novel experience, even if one wall did consist of leftover potion crates. In the 27 years he had survived without one, with the one unpleasant exception, he'd never realised just how good it could be to have his own room. With a proper straw mattress on his pallet and a pair of blankets that were actually warm, he was not only better rested, but in a better mood than he had been since... well since _Justice._

Of course, all this comfort was creating a minor problem of its own. Yes, he was comfortable in his bed at night, but truth was that he was too comfortable. In fact he was _so_ comfortable that his pillow was starting to get very bitten indeed. In a soft bed, it was far easier to imagine that you weren't alone, that a simple straying of your hand would find a face, or a hand, or some other tender part.

And she was always there, just out of reach in the pitch blackness of the night. His love, the woman who would welcome him into her arms without a second thought if he could only touch her.

A voice crept dimly into his reverie. "Ser?"

When he wasn't driving himself mad at the thought of her in bed beside him... below him... above him, he was clawing over every detail of the time he'd spent with her, trying to imagine how she would look when he saw her again at last.

"_Ser?_"

Or, if he was awake and at his desk, trying his damndest to make her as crazy for him as he was for her: filling his letters with innuendo and suggestion, risking everything just to frustrate her as she did him. Those quirking, impish features that teased him in the darkness. How extraordinary they would look when they were blown wide and vulnerable with need.

A foot caught him sharply in the shin. "Anders!" a voice hissed irritably.

He blinked. Perrin's scowling face seemed to materialise in front of him.

"What?" he asked, non-plussed.

She looked pointedly down. "We're done," she said firmly.

He followed her gaze.

'Crikey.'

He'd certainly made a mess of the man's bandages.

"Oh!" he said, dropping the wounded hand as if it were red hot, causing the patient to yelp slightly. "Oh right..." He paused, blushing a deep, dark red, before looking up at Perrin hopefully. "Do you think she's back yet?" he asked.

She groaned at him, helping the patient to his feet and turning her back on him. "_No_," she said irritably.

* * *

><p>Upright and poised, the prince greeted her in the entrance hall with a good deal more formality than usual, his sweeping bow matching the majesty of his full ceremonial armour. She curtseyed in return: her head turned down and her eyes raised to show both humility and strength; her wrists rotated outwards to prove that her close-fitted sleeves, a court essential, held no hidden daggers. The prince smiled appreciatively. "My lady Hawke," he said warmly, "I am pleased to see you looking so well."<p>

She smiled graciously in return. "Sebastian," she replied, matching her tone to his, "thank you for coming so punctually."

The leaves at her companion's feet told Ariadne that the winds were beginning to pick up again and she took her coat from Sandal with gratitude. The heavy, worked Antivan suede did little to maintain body temperature, but it provided a good barrier against the biting winds. The soft Amell maroon of the coat toned surprisingly well with the mauve of her dress, and Ariadne made a mental note to ask for piping of the same silk to be added to the housedress the seamstress would be including in her next order.

Sandal being too short, Sebastian helped her into the second sleeve, and the leather hung against her dress snugly as she closed the buttons down to her hips, leaving the rest open to allow her to move freely. Using a trick her mother had shown her, she twisted her hair into a coil and tucked it under the collar of her coat to protect it from the weather. Finally, she slipped her hands into the finely crafted leather gloves Varric had bought her for her naming day (how he had found it out she would never know) the previous month and took her file from the waiting Bodahn.

Once the door had closed behind them, Sebastian extended his arm to her as they had practiced. She placed her hand carefully, laying her palm flat on the back of his wrist but leaving her fingers uncurled as he had shown her. The gesture spoke of companionship and not intimacy, and was as important as any word that she would speak that day in the chamber. Hightown was, as ever on a day of court, bustling with retainers, lackeys and harried servants, all of whom were eager for a sign of something untoward, any gossip that might bring their masters or mistresses some advancement and themselves profit.

"I believe I saw Madame Mooney leaving," the prince noted as they made their measured step across the square. "She is a fine dressmaker."

His tone was even, mild, perfect for any enquiring (eavesdropping) ears. Ariadne repressed her smile. "Fine indeed," she replied, nodding graciously, "and very accommodating to my requirements."

Even her brief acquaintance with Sebastian was enough to tell her that his 'cough' was little more than a disguised chuckle. "Your new appearance has been very well received," he remarked broadly, glancing up ahead of them at the Viscount's palace. "I hear several young ladies are looking to mimic your style."

Looking back over her shoulder to be certain that they weren't in danger of being overheard, Ariadne muttered, "The benefits of working in the gossip-centre of Kirkwall, I suppose?"

Sebastian's 'cough' was more than enough of a response.

Loudly, she said, "I'm surprised to hear that people approve. My mother is convinced that my gowns are far from the style."

Now it was the prince's turn to mutter, "But surely that's because they are _robes_, my lady."

She stifled a snigger. "I see you _do_ know Madame Mooney," she whispered.

"I _do_ work in the gossip-centre of Kirkwall," was the barely-audible response.

The steps rose before them and Ariadne and Sebastian began to mount them together, careful not to make eye contact with each other (another sign of intimacy) and to maintain forward and yet engaging gazes.

"Practicality," Ariadne added thoughtfully, as a retainer hurried passed her, "is always my foremost concern."

Beside her the prince nodded seriously. "As is well known, my lady, I assure you," he replied formally. "And you are far from the only noble in the chamber in a more practical robe."

She smiled at the allusion, but restrained herself from comment. "Will the Conde de Valentin be in session today?" she asked, keeping her composure as best she could.

The Conde himself famously wore robes. Famous for their flamboyance. In all honesty _flamboyance_ was too mild a word. Ariadne suspected that something was wrong with the Antivan's eyesight.

If Sebastian noted the joke he made no comment. "I saw his servant, Rocinante, passing the Chantry not half an hour ago," the prince said coolly. "He will undoubtedly be there."

Ariadne was hard pushed not to glance at her friend as she nodded intently. "And Lady Harimann?" she queried, unable to keep her voice from telling her rising nerves.

"I believe so," came the steady reply.

"And the..."

They had reached the top of the steps. Sebastian's arm slipped from her palm as he turned to face her. "I believe that everyone we have courted will be in attendance, my lady," he interrupted calmly.

She turned to meet his gaze, noting that he had placed himself at arm's length. "And the proposition?" she asked, fighting to keep the nervous blush from her cheeks that might be misread at such a moment.

A warm light twinkled in the prince's azure eyes. "Is in _place_," he replied reassuringly, his gaze level and earnest. "Hawke, you have done everything I recommended, and more. You will have your opportunity to speak, and you will do so with the same fire in your heart that I have seen every time we have met," she could hear the unspoken 'practiced' in his voice, "because this matters to you."

He extended his hand and she took it gladly in her right alone (friendship) and shook it firmly (political or mercantile allegiance) saying, "Thank you, your highness."

The slight smile creasing the corner of his mouth told her she had done well in not calling him by his name. He took another half-step back. "I will not wish you good luck," he said, bowing without breaking her gaze. "You have no need of it."

Ariadne smiled broadly at the compliment, an unbroken gaze being a sign of equality in honour, the highest courtesy that even an _exiled_ royal could bestow. "I will endeavour to be worthy of such praise," she replied, curtseying as they parted ways.

* * *

><p>The clinic door swung open with enthusiasm as the young messenger announced his return. "Morning all!" Teller said brightly, entering the room to find his sister hunched over the ledger. Bent close over his scales, Anders had to stop himself from bolting up and ruining his measurements entirely. Powdered dragon-horn was in short supply, and he knew how much it must have cost Ariadne to get hold of such a quantity. Even breathing right now was ill-advised.<p>

"You're back early," Perrin noted, without looking up from her work.

Teller shrugged, dropping himself into the chair beside her. "Not much going on," he replied, "even the smugglers are just idling about."

'One weight, take off a half... Carefully slip the remaining powder back in the envelope and...'

Dropping the silk-lined packet carelessly back on the table Anders crossed the room as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. "Any word, Teller?" he asked a little breathlessly. "Any news from up top?"

Perrin's sigh only increased the boy's chuckle. "No, ser," he replied, shaking his head with a grin. "She'll only have been in there for half an hour. I just came back for something to eat."

Anders tried to pretend that he wasn't disappointed. His failure was evident in the grin that spread between the boy's slightly outsized ears. "Of course," he said, blushing sheepishly as he turned towards the back door, "I'll come get some too. Perrin?"

He glanced back at the girl, who was looking up from her ledger at the group who had just entered the clinic behind Teller. Athenril's men, a handful of the better boys of the company. Among them was a familiar, ash blond-haired youth.

The tint to Perrin's cheeks was unmistakable. "I'll err..." she hesitated, shooting the healer a half-hearted glance, "be along in a minute."

Anders could almost hear Teller rolling his eyes as they went into the back room, leaving Perrin with Cara and Lenfyr to deal with the smugglers' request. "Girls," the boy muttered darkly.

"Tell me about it," Anders echoed sympathetically, crossing the room to their makeshift sideboard as the boy closed the door behind them. The plank was uneven, but steady enough on top of the packing crates, and the mage couldn't help but smile at the evidence of Ariadne's affection spread out before him.

"Are there any of those carrots left?" Teller asked, throwing himself down in his favourite chair. "They were good."

Chuckling, Anders threw some carrots on top of the small heap of food he was balancing on his tray. "You know little boys aren't meant to _like_ vegetables, right?" he teased, turning carefully to place the food down on the table.

"I'm not little," Teller protested, reaching out to take a carrot in hand, "I'm the tallest of all the messengers. Ask anyone."

"Not to mention the skinniest," the mage quipped, tearing a chunk off the loaf he had brought over and throwing it down in front of the boy.

Mouth half-full of carrot, the young messenger still managed a grin. "You're not one to talk," he returned quickly, eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Well!" Anders replied, feigning horror as he slipped into a chair. "We _are_ feeling feisty today."

* * *

><p>The open session had begun much as had been expected, with the visiting dignitaries invited to voice concerns from the foreigners' perspective on the issues before those with vested interests, the local nobility, were permitted to speak. With the quarantine now having been in place for nearly 8 months, and this the first unscripted court session in that period, the chamber was full to bursting, and the guard had been forced to provide extra seating. Sitting at the far left of the horseshoe of nobles before the Viscount's seat (furthest from his gaze as according to her importance, this being her first appearance) Ariadne could just see Aveline to the right of the chamber door. She suspected that Sebastian was somewhere in the viewing gallery, a selection of chairs for non-speaking people of birth or other importance directly behind the Speakers' Seats, but she could not be certain without turning her head.<p>

It was an hour into the session before the quarantine was even mentioned, with Seneschal Bran bringing it up as the third item on the agenda of submissions. How exactly future changes to Orlesian import duties and the birth of the new heir of Orzammar were more pressing than the current humanitarian disaster perpetuating within their own walls, was somewhat beyond Ariadne.

This morning the Conde de Valentin was resplendent in regal purple and violent mustard yellow. Called upon to give an Antivan viewpoint on the issue, and then to refer the court to a suitable speaker, the large, enthusiastic man spoke gallantly on the need to ease such widespread and unnecessary suffering. Standing with the other so-called 'visitors' (the Conde himself had been resident in Kirkwall for almost fifteen years) in the space just behind the Speakers' Seats, the Antivan nobleman prowled backwards and forwards, casting the vaguest of jibes and aspersions on conduct and character whilst standing behind _very_ particular seats. "For whatever else may be said of Antiva," he noted with gusto, coming at last to the end of his point, "we can never be described as _slothful_." The Conde paused, allowing a moment for his point to gain impact. "In such times as these," he continued, moving now to stand as planned in the space behind Ariadne's chair, "what is needed is forthright practicality, and it is with this in mind, your grace the _excellent_ Viscount, that I henceforth call upon the lady Hawke, scion of the Amell family, to speak."

A ripple of noise spread swiftly and murmurously through the vaulted chamber and Ariadne could have sworn that, as she stood, she saw the Guard Captain give an involuntary start of surprise.

"My humble gratitude," she replied, stepping forward into the Viscount's line of sight to curtsey as she thanked her introducer, "_mi__señor__muy amable_, I am most honoured."

The Viscount roused slightly in his seat, taking in her appearance with confused eyes. "Hawke? As in..." he trailed off, his eyes flashing with recognition. "Very well. Proceed."

With a nod of gratitude, Ariadne returned to stand before her seat. The Conde offered her a folder, having retrieved it from the rack at the back of her chair but, feeling confident, she refused it graciously, turning to address the court unaided. "My lords, my good ladies and gentleman," she said, pitching her voice as loudly as she dared in the echoey space, "we stand in a time of crisis. Far beneath us, people suffer, and there are those among us who can no longer sit idly by."

* * *

><p>Perrin's face was decidedly flushed when she eventually decided to join them half an hour later. Teller's vivid eyes met Anders' over the table, and they made a silent agreement to be as irritating as humanly possible.<p>

"A lot of smugglers about this morning," the mage noted dryly, slurping the surface of his tea loudly as the girl tensed visibly in his peripheral vision.

"A fair few," she replied tersely, moving to gather some food from the sideboard.

Anders was about to cut in with some jibe when Teller perked up slightly, a strange look on his narrow face. "Do you think something's going on?" he asked his sister sharply.

Something clattered on the wooden board behind him, and the mage felt Perrin tensing. "I'm not sure," she said quietly, uneasily, "I think they maybe just... _know_ something."

Now Anders was tensing, feeling as he did the worry in her young voice. "Something good..." he asked softly, turning slowly in his seat to look up at her, "or something _bad_?"

The concern in the girl's brown eyes as she met his gaze froze his heart in his chest. "Hard to tell," she replied shortly. "They just seem a bit jittery."

The mage glanced sharply back at Teller. "You don't think they..."

"Hawke's speech?" the boy asked, his eyes widening. "But you've been so _careful_."

Perrin rounded the table before he had a chance to, crouching before her brother and taking his hand in both of hers. "Teller, you need to think," she commanded firmly. "Have you seen anything, any letter that could..."

The young messenger hesitated, his jaw clenching as he nodded. "Maybe... There was _one_," he said softly, almost fearfully. "The other day. Posh paper like Hawke uses. _Posher_. Written in foreign. It was open."

"They've been opening someone else's post?" Anders interjected, frowning. "Who was it for?"

Teller met his eyes nervously, and Anders briefly wondered if the boy had been frightened of telling him. "That girl down in the old Slaver den," he replied sheepishly. "With the pretty eyes."

"Marta?" Perrin asked, glancing over at the mage with recognition. "The one from Nevarra?"

They had treated her for an infected cut less than a fortnight ago. Anders' unease was growing as Teller nodded.

"There was a letter from a noble," the mage asked, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible, "for her?"

Teller nodded again, looking, if that were possible, more uncomfortable than before. "She's been getting them the whole time, ser," he added, "but Athenril only started opening them recently."

The boy _was_ frightened of telling him. Anders reached out a hand, taking the child's reassuringly, trying to show that no matter what he had to tell them, he wouldn't be in trouble. "How recently?"

"Early Kingsway?" the boy responded, still unhappy but far less anxious than before. "The first day of High Mass, I think."

Perrin groaned, running a hand over her pale features. "When the Viscount declared the session, Teller? You're sure?"

"Pretty sure," Teller replied, his voice little more than a whisper.

There could be only one explanation.

"Blackmail," Anders said quietly, letting his head slip into his hands. "Ariadne has already lost."

* * *

><p>As soon as the front door closed behind them Ariadne cast off Sebastian's arm as if it were a rotten log. "I don't understand!" she exploded, slapping her gloves down onto the entrance hall table in frustration. "How could the Nevarran ambassador <em>object<em>? He's not even on permanent assignment!"

Standing in the doorway, the Starkhaven prince looked as dejected as she was enraged. "He claimed the Right to Advise," he said quietly, his whole expression downcast.

Ariadne's temper flared as her mother appeared at the top of the stairs, attracted no doubt by the noise of their arrival. "I know, Sebastian, I was _the_re_,_" she snapped, turning back to the archer and walking towards him. "He had a speech already prepared. Cut in before I even had a _chance_ to cite Ostwick's example."

"I know, Hawke," the prince replied softly.

The young mage shook her head. "People knew of this speech," she continued. "No secret stays that way in this town but..." she paused, meeting Sebastian's gaze meaningfully, "he countered my points _exactly_."

The Starkhaven exile took her suggestion with widened eyes. "We have been spied upon?" he asked in a harsh whisper. "Surely not?"

In such a fervent conversation, even Leandra Amell did not feel the need to announce herself formally. "Someone objected?" she asked, descending the stairs.

Sebastian nodded as Ariadne paced away from him towards the fire. "The Nevarran ambassador, my lady, Fallon Dale."

"It makes no _sense_," Ariadne spat, slamming her palms down on the mantelpiece. "The Dale family has a history of humanitarianism." She stared fiercely into the fire as if it might afford her some answer. "Back in Cumberland his grandfather Meyron _saved _four communities from a deluge cause by a broken dam with his own funds." She sighed, pressing her forehead against the cool carven stone. "I _cannot_ believe that he could be so heartless."

Sebastian had moved, now standing close behind her. "History books are not always honest, my lady," he said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Nor do the good deeds of an ancestor indicate the character of a man."

She turned sharply to face him. "And you told me yourself that Dale is well known for his cautious and moderating voice," she responded, the kindness in the lay brother's face softening her rage. "He has _never_ spoken out like this."

The prince nodded, setting his jaw. "Then someone got to him," he declared firmly.

Rustling silks brought Leandra to her daughter's side. "Is there anything to be salvaged?" she asked tenderly, taking her daughter's hand. "Can you get an audience with the Viscount?"

"I already have," Ariadne replied, her anger dying into disappointment. "I am to see him next week."

Sebastian shook his head, taking the parchment folder from the inside of his cloak. "Two months of work up the spout," he growled, casting the speech he had so carefully copied into the flames. "I can hardly believe it."

Leandra's hand on her daughter's shoulder was warm and comforting. "What shall you do?" she asked stoically.

"We must push on," the prince replied, glancing briefly at Leandra before looking his companion in the eye. "We have little other choice." His gaze intensified, and the archer extended an arm to grasp Ariadne by the shoulder once more. "Winter is coming, and if the people have to rely on those _smugglers_ they will surely all starve."

"And freeze," Ariadne added with the barest nod.

* * *

><p>As the moorland materialised around them again the healer growled with anger. "There!" he snapped, wheeling back on Bethany who flinched at the violence of his outburst. "Right there! Did you see it? Did you see that last look in his eye?"<p>

His guide squirmed uncomfortably, colour rising in her cheeks. "Anders..."

He stepped closer to her, hardly seeing the way she crossed her arms as if defending herself. "Tell me you didn't see it," he demanded, challenging her with his eyes.

She broke his gaze. "I saw it," she admitted awkwardly.

"And tell me," he persisted, half-stamping his foot into the gravelly dirt of the path, "tell me now that you don't think he knew what he was going to do. That he knew it even _then_!"

Bethany shook her head in frustration. "I didn't intend to," she said irritably, "I know nothing of Sebastian's heart, Anders, and neither do you."

The fierce spark in her eyes should have quelled him, but it only stung him further. "Forgive me, Bethany," he scoffed bitterly, "but _I_ do. I know that... that _man_ better than he even knows himself. I have seen his true colours, and they are as ugly and as blackened as anything the Chantry ever wrought."

* * *

><p>The goose quill had never felt heavier in his hand, nor his words more laboured and difficult to come by. The brazier crackled merrily by his side, but Anders still shivered in the cold night air of the clinic.<p>

_Ariadne,_

_This is a setback yes, but please don't be disheartened. You are more capable than you give yourself credit for and I have no doubt that, if there is something you have put your mind to, it will come within your reach, obstacles or no._

_I wish I could be there to reassure you. I wish you had someone in your life who could put their arms around you and tell you that you will achieve your aims. Someone who could make you feel good and loved and better. Someone who could celebrate with you when this all comes to its rightful conclusion._

_Things will get better, because you will do what needs to be done._

_I know that whatever action you take next will be the first step to that moment. _

_I trust you._

_-Anders_

Yes writing such a letter was brazen, even a declaration of war, but Athenril had struck the first blow. If the people of the Undercity found out that the elf was actively working _against_ moves to bring aid to them, the chaos would almost certainly destroy the smugglers. Athenril was assuming that no-one would oppose her, that Ariadne would simply back down, leaving the smugglers to maintain their iron hold over the lives of Darktown indefinitely. She was underestimating them.

And no-one underestimated Ariadne, not if he had anything to do with it.

Aid was needed. The changing weather was beginning to bite, and he could not fight infection in these conditions forever. After months of beating the Cholera back to its last, gasping moments, they now ran the serious risk of losing everyone still in recovery to a winter plague like Antivan influenza. Those who had come back from the point of death were now vulnerable to being swept away in the bat of an eyelid. People who had fought valiantly for their lives, lives that deserved to be _protected_. Lives like Teller's.

So Anders would comfort Ariadne as openly as he dared. He would make her smile, giggle and even blush if he felt that it would do her good. He would do it not only for himself, but because she was the best hope any of them had of seeing the sun again. He would do it so that Teller could breathe clean air.

* * *

><p>Five days later, as she readied herself to leave for her meeting with the Viscount, Ariadne's cheeks were still burning from Anders' latest letter. It had arrived just that morning, mere moments after she herself had woken, and if it hadn't been for Athenril's meddling, she almost would have said the mage had <em>planned <em>it that way.

_Have you ever been taken with a passion, my friend? So truly __taken__ that it burns out all other thought? I must confess that even now, even here in the depths of this Maker-forsaken darkness, I find myself distracted beyond measure by such thoughts as would scandalize your Chantry friend._

It seemed ridiculous, to be so flustered by a suggestion that under any other circumstances would have her grinning from ear to ear. But the mere thought that Athenril had read this, that still worse she might have understood, was more than the young mage could bear.

"Are you ready, my lady?" Sebastian asked, drawing her out of her reverie.

She flushed, if possible, darker, adjusting her gloves unnecessarily. "As I'll ever be," she replied.

She took his arm again just inside the door, and he glanced at her as they swung open. "I might be mistaken into thinking that life in the nobility suits you," he said quietly as they moved forward into the biting wind. "Indeed you look far better even than the last time I saw you. The colour is quite back into your cheeks."

"I..." she hesitated slightly, wondering how he would react if he knew _exactly_ what her colouring was for, "thank you Sebastian. Shall we?"

The gale rendered conversation impossible as they crossed the blustery square, and when they entered the shelter of the Viscount's colonnade Ariadne had to pause to bring her hair under control. In such inclement weather, the palace was nearly deserted, and that in itself was a relief, making it unlikely that their appointment would be interrupted too soon.

Bran ushered them into the study with more formality than was strictly necessary and she found herself wondering if the Seneschal was a little perturbed to have spoken as he did to her as a mercenary, only to find her a noble. The Viscount did not rise to meet them, looking up from his papers with a raised eyebrow.

"Messere Hawke, I was expecting you of course," he said, as if he had not expected her at all. "And who is your friend?"

"Sebastian Vael, my lord Viscount," the eponymous archer intoned, bowing his head.

Now _that_ got Dumar's attention. "The Prince of Starkhaven?" he asked, getting to his feet briskly and looking at the pair of them with new eyes. "Well, my lady, you _are_ full of surprises. Please, take a seat."

* * *

><p>A faint pattering at the very periphery of her hearing told Ariadne that rain was beginning to fall outside the mouth of the cave, a sudden shower at the cooling of the day.<p>

Bustling over the kettle for what seemed the fifteenth time since dawn, she hummed happily to herself as she talked: "And then I said: 'Surely you must be able to see how such a humanitarian _disaster_ will affect the new season's trade. You can't just _hush_ this up.' You can imagine how _that _went down." She paused, laughing as she stirred the infusion. "Anyway, at this point Sebastian cut in with his point about Ostwick and I..."

A strangled gasp from behind her stopped her dead.

"Carver?"

She turned in an instant, found him slumped over himself with his face pressed into the dirt.

"_Carver? _Shit."

Dropping to her knees, she gripped her brother's shoulders with a strength that was not her own, turning him so that he landed heavily in her lap. "Come on Carver," she gasped, half-choking in fear that the sight of his ashen face, the dirt and new-forming spittle crusting his lips.

"No."

She was shivering, shuddering, groping blindly for the basin of water, for something to clean his face.

"No, Carver?"

She couldn't tell if this was it, if it was the delirium or something else. She didn't know and if she couldn't figure it out she would be powerless to help him.

"_Please_."

Words echoed that did not seem to belong to her, helpless and hopeless and full of childish fear.

"Don't do this yet."


	16. Cut Adrift

**_Author's Note:_** Surprise! Two days to go till the wedding and I realised I'd never posted Ch. 16. So sorry! ANyway, I haven't had time to get my usual lovely betas to look at it, but I don't think there are any glaring errors. If there are just message me.

Apologies too to my lovely reviewers. You are all so sweet and once the crazy is over I will message you as per usual and thank you properly.

For now I disclaim, and offer this chapter for your reading pleasure.**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 16: Cut Adrift<strong>

Grey heath and mossy sky blurred and swirled as if blustered in a terrible wind. The path beneath their feet seemed to be slipping, seemed to be lost, _impossible_. The whole Fade roared in his ears.

Anders groped blindly, finding Bethany some distance away, stumbling. Clearer than all things other, and yet half faded out of sight. He gripped her by the arms, drew her face closer to his to shout over the howling gale. "Something's _wrong_!"

Her eyes tell him that she knows, and he can hardly feel the ground sliding beneath them, the whole vision seeming to collapse. "I know!" she cried, her eyes as fearful as he felt, and if the colour of them were different, for a moment he might have thought that she were Ariadne. Except...

"Where... where's she _gone_?" he asked, his voice pleading and already half hoarse. "She was here, I could feel her. She was close."

The fear rose in Bethany's eyes, and the healer knew that he had only seen that amount of fear once before. It felt like a blow to the stomach, like a blade. "I don't know, Anders," she said, or mouthed, or whispered – at any rate he couldn't hear her.

He pulled her closer, feeling that she was slipping away too. His guide was fading, and it made him desperate. "You said we were connected!" he yelled. "You said that the spell connected me to her. How can she be gone?"

Black curls streamed from the girl's face, tangling and vanishing in equal measure. "I don't _know_."

She was fading, the colour is fading from every detail, every line. He shook her. "No... no she's not _gone_," he shouted, his stomach plummeting as he searched himself, scrabbled for confirmation that he was right, that she wasn't. He found it, and the relief brought him to the edge of tears. "She's here," he cried, "she's close but she's... It's like she's looking somewhere else. Like she's _distracted_." He was almost laughing, half hysterical with gratitude. She wasn't gone. She was there, somewhere outside his eyelids, she was _alive_. He smiled, but realized that nothing had changed, felt the world getting darker, saw his guide as pale as carven alabaster. "Bethany? Bethany, I think she's _frightened_," he said, thinking to reassure her. "Bethany?"

But Bethany was not reassured, and those eyes that Anders knew so well looked at him as if on the edge of some great empty void. "So am I, Anders. So am I."

* * *

><p>The clinic was dim and dusty. And dusty. And dim. The examination table, generally a rather haphazard sort of sideboard, creaked menacingly as his patient shifted.<p>

"Open wide," he commanded, shining a light down from his staff.

"Ahhh," said the boy, tilting his head back to an angle that spoke of a well-practiced subject of medicinal scrutiny.

Anders smiled, leaning in for his inspection. "Good," he pronounced, taking the boy's chin and leaning it gently sideways to perfect the trajectory of the light. "Healthy colouring, a good coating of mucus."

The chin snapped back out of his hand and brown eyes flared with disgust. "Mucus? _Eurgh_!"

The mage fixed him with a warning glare. "_Teller_..." The boy sighed and opened his mouth again. The healer returned to his inspection. "No spots or scarring, no sign of inflammation," he noted, stepping back and nodding. "Good," he said, tousling unruly ginger hair. "Close up."

Teller shuffled sulkily off the bench. "You give the other kids those barley sweets _Hawke_ sends you," he grumbled.

"_They_ don't get all the other things she sends," Anders returned, pursing his lips slightly as he made a final appraising sweep for general complexion. For a boy who had spent the best part of a year living underground now, Teller had a remarkably healthy colouring. "Go on," he said dismissively, feigning disinterest, "be off with you. I'm sure Athenril has something she needs you to do."

The boy echoed his behaviour. "Fine," he chirped, crashing hectically towards the door like a 10-year-old whirlwind. "See you later Perrin. Take care, _ser_."

That was deliberate. The door swung wildly on his hinges from where Teller had half smashed it open in over-enthusiasm. "I told you not to call me that!" Anders called, rounding the table to shut it properly behind him.

The rusty mop-head was already halfway across the when he turned and waved exuberantly back. "_Bye_!"

Anders pretended that he wasn't smiling, tried to frown and not wave and look _grumpy_. He failed. He was cheerful. Of course, the moment he closed the door behind him, the worry swept in and overwhelmed almost everything else.

"Out with it."

He blinked in surprise, turning back to find Perrin staring up at him from her seat at their tiny table, her hair still damp from the water he'd warmed for her to wash in half an hour ago, her expression serious.

He tried to feign ignorance, bending himself over the teapot and pouring another brew into his favourite cup. "Out with what?" he asked, as casually as he could.

Perrin's sigh was more long-suffering than her years had earned. "Whatever it is that's got you fussing over him like a swaddled infant," she replied, flatly.

Anders tutted, the flesh on his cheekbones turning ever so slightly pink as he stirred his tea unnecessarily. "I am not 'fussing'," he grumbled. "I'm a healer. I don't _fuss_."

He could sense those ginger eyebrows raising. He could _sense_ them.

"You've been checking him every day for weeks now," she countered, her voice cool and judgemental and where had she learned that level of sarcasm from that was just _not right_.

He tried to ignore it. "Have I? It must have slipped my mind."

That scoff was definitely new. "Nothing slips your mind," she replied again.

'Always has an answer, that girl, thinks she so clever and smart and _judgey_,' he thought to himself.

"And what's suddenly so wrong with your magic?" she asked bluntly.

He was still stirring his tea, it was getting somewhat ridiculous. He stopped, pulled out the chair and sat down in it, shrugging as he looked up at her. "I don't..."

But she cut him off, interrupting him with a noise of irritation and a toast crust to the nose. "Looking in his mouth? Listening to his chest with that funny trumpet?"

Anders shook his head in annoyance. "I do that for everyone," he said, sniffily.

"You_ pretend_ to do that for everyone," Perrin returned, sitting back in her chair and looking at him with those brown eyes that could puzzle secrets out of anyone. "You know as well as I do that you get everything from the blue sparkles."

He winced slightly at that. That she could know so much and still not know the truth about him was difficult, and only getting more so as time passed. Maybe if he just got it over and done with, got it out in the open _now_ while they were talking she'd be so surprised she'd forget to run away screaming and...

"You're looking at him without magic, why?" she queried, bringing him back to the here-and-now with a start.

"It's good to keep in practice," he said, not even convincing himself.

Perrin shook her head. "You're double-checking him," she corrected, looking at him almost sadly. "Every time you look him over. Every single day."

"I'm being cautious," he protested, drinking deeply from his teacup as his brow darkened considerably.

"You're _fussing_," she repeated, looking sadder still.

The mage shuffled uneasily in his seat, setting his cup down sharply. "So what if I am," he said, fully aware that he was being defensive. He softened. "He hardly seems to _mind_."

"Mind?" Perrin laughed, her freckles crinkling on her nose. "He _loves_ it. You know he does."

Anders smiled. There was no mistaking the light that crept into the boy's young, lively face when the mage pronounced him free to go about his day with a tousle of his cropped ginger hair. He cocked his head slightly. "That's alright then, isn't it?"

"Apart from how fat he's going to get if you keep pushing those second helpings on him," she replied, her eyes twinkling warmly, "of _course_."

The mage chuckled, running a hand over his hair as his cheeks flushed with colour. "He's a growing boy."

Perrin sighed, and even he could feel the affection in it. "I'm not _complaining_, ser... _Anders_. I'm just saying... you don't have to worry so much. He's strong."

"Of course he is," he said, nodding firmly as he dropped his gaze to the teacup in front of him, and his hand holding it.

Another, slender, _freckled_ hand joined it. "I know it's colder now, but when he's here he gets warm again. He's not going anywhere," she added, her fingers wrapping over his, dragging them from the cup and _just_ squeezing. "Neither of us are."

Her voice was choked, and suddenly his was too. "I know," he whispered, looking down at the hand holding his as if it were... as if it were made of...

"Do you?" she asked, and he looked up to see that her eyes were full of tears. "Because you're treating Teller like he's _made of glass_."

She was a bright one, this girl of... this girl with her eyes that could pull him to bits. It was at moments like this when he thought that he could tell her, that he could tell her and her brother and that it wouldn't matter. Because she was so understanding, and she adored him and maybe that would be enough.

Fingers squeezed again. "I'm glad," she whispered. "I'm glad you like him. Glad he tells you what Athenril wants him to be doing. Glad that he listens to you."

His eyes were rather watery. "You are?"

"He _needs_ someone like you," she replied softly. "Someone older. Who can tell him what's right and wrong and really know it."

He frowned at that. "You think _I_ do?" he asked, his voice full of unmasked surprise.

She nodded, her brown eyes so honest and kind. "You've got... _principles_," she said firmly. "You believe that some things are right and some things are wrong." She paused, looking uncomfortable. "When you're desperate," she said quietly her voice descending into a whisper, "when you've had to choose between being hungry or doing something you think might be wrong... it's not always as easy." She stopped, swallowed, looked up at him for reassurance. Anders squeezed her hand in return. She smiled. "The messenger boys," she said carefully, "most of them end up running jobs before their voices change, because they think it's easier."

That was what this meant for them. The difference between having the freedom to choose what they felt to be right, and being forced to choose the path that would allow them to survive. Yes, the issue with the letters to Marta had been something of a setback. Teller had been almost certain that he would be cast out on his ear for not having realized that the letters could be important. His relief had been profound.

"I know," Anders sighed, running his free hand over his brow before settling it over his other and Perrin's.

"So I'm glad," she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "And maybe I don't need you in the same way he does, but I'm glad for me too." He looked up at her, their eyes connecting as their fingers squeezed. "You were right, I do feel safer. I'm happy here."

"Then _I'm_ glad," he replied, drawing a breath into his chest as it tightened slightly. "I'm glad too. I'm _proud_."

And he _was_ proud, and gladder than he had any right to be in the current circumstances. He could almost say that he had never been happier or, more accurately, that he had never have so much to be happy for.

And that worried him more than anything.

* * *

><p>Bulky limbs struggled, twitched as a body half-conscious fought against its bonds.<p>

"Stop it."

Hands fumbled, grappled, the fingers sausagey and useless, unable to get purchase on narrow wrists.

"_No_, Carver."

Mouth full of spit foamed over as the owner's breath sputtered in drowsy, feverish gasps. "Nnhn..."

Brows knitted together as mouth grunted, disorientated mind latching on like a hunger, a devouring need to take and take and

"Carver, no," her voice said, as a hand delivered a sharp slap to the side of his face. "No," it repeated as she pushed his hands away from her face. "I _need_ my mana. _You_ need it so I can heal you. Come on."

The limbs were weak, the hands could not grasp. The mind was weak, it could not focus.

Cold.

_Cold._

Cold on the face and neck and the body was rousing, scrabbling, struggling upright and being held down by arms and fear and he shoved them back.

Shoved back hard.

"Oww," her voice said.

But the cold bit deeper, something more than water, something _hungry_-making inside it. So cold and then tremors. Tremors. Sharp. Glass legs. Judder. Buck. Tremor. Shake. Shake. Shake.

Mind struggled upwards. Time had passed. Cold was now soothing. He's been gone somewhere but, where? Eyes flickered open. Then closed. Hazy firelight. Soft face. Her voice now soothed.

"I'm almost done," it whispered, sounding of tears and something hurting. "_There_. There, that's better."

She was right, it was, and now Carver began to feel, to know that he was Carver again, and wonder a little where he'd been, and why Ariadne sounded like she was crying.

"Now," her voice said, shaky and all wrong, "where was I?"

The library door swung open with the thud of wood on stonework and the clink of gold jewellery. "A dress _again_?" Isabela exclaimed, bursting into the room with a swagger on her hips and a dangerous smile curving her mouth. "I wish you'd wear your coat and breeches more often, they bring out the rebellion in your eyes."

Repressing a snigger, Ariadne bent herself over the cauldron cooling on the grate and inhaled deeply. "I have company, Bela," she muttered darkly, the smirk never leaving her face.

The Rivaini chuckled, her rich, fruity laugh echoing in the cavernous room as Bodahn hurried to close the door behind her. "_I_ don't mind," she replied, sweeping past her friend with a swift smack to the girl's backside and perching herself on Ariadne's desk without so much as a by-your-leave. "Besides, I prefer your arse in leather any day."

With both sets of cheeks sporting matching blushes the young mage snapped upright, leaning over to pull a sheaf of papers out from beneath the pirate's ample posterior. "I didn't mean _you_," she retorted warmly, swatting Isabela on the thigh with the pile of recipes. "Sebastian is coming."

"I'll _bet_ he is."

Ariadne rolled her eyes with longsuffering affection, returning to stir her potion in slow careful strokes. "To what do I owe this visit?" she asked, glancing up at the pirate with a twinkle lighting her azure eyes. "I'm rather in the middle of something."

Bela shrugged, swinging her legs nonchalantly off the edge of the desk. "Nothing _particular_," she purred, pouting as if slightly wounded at the suggestion. "I just wanted to check in on my favourite noblewoman-cum-adventurer-apostate."

Auburn eyebrows raised abruptly. "You've found the relic?" Ariadne gasped, looking at the Rivaini with wide eyes. "Really?"

Isabela grinned broadly. "There's this tunnel down on the Wounded Coast," she replied brightly. "It's there, I can _feel _it."

The young mage smiled warmly, tucking a strand of ruby hair casually behind her ear. "Alright," she said with a nod. "I'll pop down to the Hanged Man at lunchtime tomorrow and we'll pick a suitable day." She paused, lifting the ladle high over the cauldron and watching a slippery rope of solution drop down into the shimmering vat. "Now, however, I need to do some bottling."

She stooped down to retrieve a bottle and her small funnel. Inserting the funnel into the bottleneck, she clamped her thumb and forefinger around the cone and gripped the bottle tight in her fist. Lifting the ladle high in the air with her free hand she trickled a precise measure of the silvery solution into the waiting bottle before stooping to deposit it back on the hearth.

As she collected and began the task of filling the third bottle, some cleavage leaned over attached to a woman. "Mmm," Bela said with glittering eyes. "These potions of yours do look _exciting_."

Ariadne's sigh was pained. "They're just _elfroot_ solutions, Isabela," she grumbled, focusing on the job in hand, "nothing to get your _lack_ of knickers in a twist over."

Glass clinked on stone, and the fourth bottle was held aloft.

"But look at them," the Rivaini protested, "the way they glisten..."

The mage barked with startled laughter. "Trust you to sexualise a _potion_..." she sniggered, stooping again. She filled the fifth, sixth and seventh with deft precision, emptying the cauldron with the practiced movements of a professional. Leaving the filled bottles to cool on the hearth, she moved to cork the second batch in a crate at Isabela's feet, and paused. "Actually," she mused, holding the cooled bottle to her nose, "there is _one_ thing about them that you'd like." She looked upwards at her friend with a suggestive smile. "I'll show you if you want."

Dark eyes lit up with excitement. "Go on _then_," the pirate purred.

Ariadne stuffed the cork into the cooled bottle and stood, taking Bela by the hand. Pulling her off the desk and over to the fireplace, she reached for the ladle, scraping the lingering residue of the potion from the cauldron. "Take your gloves off," she commanded briskly. "We wouldn't want them getting messy."

Isabela did as she was commanded, holding out her hand to the young mage with an expression of deep curiosity.

"Close your eyes," Ariadne said, turning the Rivaini's palm upwards and rubbing the fingers with her thumbs to relax them. Reaching behind her to the ladle, she poured a drop of the still-warm solution over Isabela's index fingertip. It lingered momentarily in place, a silvery dome shimmering in the firelight against her tanned skin, and then slid down.

"Andraste's _tits_!" Bela exclaimed, her eyes flying wide open as she jumped back as if she'd been stung.

Ariadne's laughter rang out brightly. "I know," she giggled, watching her friend staring open-mouthed at the fluid trailing down in her palm, making the pirate tremble. "It's funny, that's how you have to test them."

"And it..." Isabela whispered, whimpering involuntarily as the mage swiped the potion away with a soft cloth, "it always feels like _that_?"

Depositing the ladle and the cloth unceremoniously in the empty cauldron, Ariadne grinned. "If the potion is working and it's at body-temperature," she replied, untying the apron that had been protecting her dress from the sputtering brew, "then yes."

"No wonder Elegant always looks so smug," Bela quipped, straightening herself up slightly.

Ariadne smoothed the rosemary green silk of her gown. "It's not because of her husband," she remarked wryly, "that's for certain."

"Have you seen the man?" the Rivaini scoffed, slinging herself back onto her desktop perch. "I _knew_ she had to be getting her kicks from something else."

Nimble fingertips carded through silken ruby strands of hair. "I don't think that anyone who looks quite so much like a pig can really be called a man," Ariadne replied, chuckling.

"Good point." Bela looked down longingly at the crate by her feet as the bells began to chime, reminding Ariadne that it was half an hour until the beginning of the morning's court session. In the four weeks since her initial failure the cold had bitten in hard, but if Sebastian had gauged the mood in the courts correctly there was a good chance that today's session would see the result they had been hoping for. The mage's pulse fluttered nervously at the thought. If there was one thing she had realised in this last month it was that she _hated_ public speaking almost as much as she hated Templars. Which was a lot. Yet despite it all she had to smile sweetly and swallow down her nerves and play the courtier. She could only hope that in time it would get easier.

"Don't suppose I could take one of those special little bottles away with me?" Bela asked, interrupting her thoughts. "I bet I could think of all sorts of creative things to do with them."

Chuckling, Ariadne shook her head. "I don't want to know," she said, moving to sit beside her friend on the desk. Isabela shifted over to make room.

"Oh come on," the pirate protested, nudging the younger woman with her shoulder, "you can't pretend you haven't _tested_ them yourself."

"Bela!" Ariadne spluttered in disbelief. "I make these potions to heal the _sick_."

"But you used to sell them back in Lothering," the Rivaini purred, a smirk twisting her mouth, "during your _misspent_ youth."

"Yes _dear_," the mage sighed irritably, "I used to make them in my _tiny shack_ which I shared with my _two_ siblings. Not to mention my parents and a flea-infested dog."

From his usual spot on the mezzanine, blunt nose poking out between two rails of the balustrade, aforementioned dog let out a pitiful whine.

"Oh _don't _look at me like that, Magellan," Ariadne exclaimed hopelessly. "You _were_."

Isabela giggled as Magellan got up and retreated from view, most likely to his hiding place under the barrel. "I think you've hurt his feelings," she teased, poking the Fereldan in the thigh. "Look he's _sulking_."

"Takes after his master then, doesn't he?" the mage muttered darkly, kicking her legs out from the desk in sharp arcs.

The pirate paused, hearing the venom in her friend's voice. "Any more _charming_ letters?" she asked, watching Ariadne closely.

"From Carver?" she asked, raising an auburn eyebrow.

Isabela shrugged. "Or in general," she replied thoughtfully, "depending on your meaning of _charming_."

Ariadne wrinkled her nose. "I don't much like the combination of that tone of voice with mention of my _brother_, Bela," she grumbled, pushing off the desk and heading up the stairs in search of the dog.

"Well the boy _is _a Templar now," the Rivaini called up after her, "he must get _terribly_ frustrated."

"Bela..."

"Or maybe he doesn't?" she mused, blithely ignoring her friends protests. "Maybe he has a friend that he... oh what's the phrase? _Winds down_ with after drill."

Crouched under the ale barrel, trying to reach for Magellan's ears (scritches were the only thing that could ever tempt him out), Ariadne groaned. "Maker's breath 'Bela keep your thoughts to yourself."

"Templars not up your alley, hmm?" came the pirate's reply. "No I suppose not. How about _mages_ then?"

Ariadne nearly banged her head, but the scritches did their work. Magellan wriggled out from under the barrel and the mage smoothed herself down as Isabela continued: "_Apostate_ mages: writing fervent letters under the cloak of secrecy; danger and suspicion lurking around every corner; codes and intrigue; suggestion and _innuendo_. Sound about right?"

"How much have you written?" the younger woman asked, waiting at the head of the stairs.

The Rivaini cocked her head slightly, jewellery glittering in the light cast by the fire. "Not much," she said, smirking deeply. "Only forty thousand words or so. Do you prefer belts or paddles for spanking?"

Ariadne descended slowly. "I'm guessing it will make no difference if I say neither?"

"Staffs then?" Bela rejoined brightly, "I knew they had to have some _practical_ application."

"_Staves_, Bela," the mage corrected, "they're called staves."

"So you admit it?" the pirate asked as the younger woman approached, barely able to repress her grin.

"I admit nothing, woman," her friend replied archly, "this is all in your head!"

Isabela bent forward teasingly. "But you wish it wasn't, don't you?" she purred, seizing Ariadne's hand and tangling their fingers together. "You wish that all this quarantine business was out of the way (although is it _very_ dramatic, good for tension, don't you think?) so that you could just stop pretending and get to the juicy bits."

A chime sounded, startling Ariadne out of her humour. "Is that the second bell?" she asked, straining to listen as she pulled back a little from the Rivaini.

But Isabela pulled back on her hand. "Admit it, pet," she teased, as Ariadne pulled her towards the door, "you love it, don't you?" She darted between the mage and the door putting a hand on her friend's shoulder. "He's teasing you something rotten and you just want to segue past the formalities and get to the torrid lovemaking and _spanking_."

"I've got to meet..." Ariadne protested, growing irritable as the pirate matched her attempts to sidestep. "Get out of my _way,_ Bela."

The older woman simply smirked. "Admit it."

"No."

Tanned hands fastened on her shoulders, preventing Ariadne from moving. "_Admit_ it," Isabela demanded.

"_No,_" the mage repeated, her cheeks growing pink.

"Then I'll trap you here," the pirate replied matter-of-factly. "Makes no difference to me."

Wondering just when her friend had learned to be so maddening, Ariadne struggled against Isabela's grip. "I'll freeze your knickers to your _nethers_," she hissed angrily.

Dark eyes widened dramatically. "Nethers? Who in Thedas says nethers? " the Rivaini exclaimed, chuckling merrily. "Anyway, I'd probably enjoy it."

"Not if I had anything to... oh _fine,_" Ariadne groaned, dropping back as her friend relinquished her hold. "Yes, Isabela," she exclaimed loudly, "he's driving me _insane_, all this subtle flirting and veiled suggestion has me as wet as a spring morning and twice as bouncy." She waved her hands melodramatically for emphasis as the pirate stepped aside. She strode forwards. "I'd like nothing better than to gag him with his _blessed_ parchments and suck him till he didn't know how to..." The doors swung open before her, revealing... "Sebastian?"

Chuckling, Isabela skipped up behind her saying, "That's not a verb, pet, I think you'll... _oh_."

Blushing crimson in his full ceremonial armour, the Starkhaven prince looked more stunned than Ariadne thought was humanly possible. He hesitated, and then bowed deeply. "Ah... my lady Hawke," he said, seeming unable to meet her gaze as he stood. "I apologise, I had some extra time to spare and thought I would come to your home to meet you."

"I bet you did," Bela purred, leaning over Ariadne's shoulder.

The prince's eyes widened further and he bowed again. "My sincerest apologies, I'll wait for you outside."

Ariadne flagged visibly as he turned and stepped smartly back in the direction of the front door. "How much of that did he _hear_?" she asked pitifully. "You don't think he thought..." she paused, and then groaned. "Oh the _poor_ man."

"His vows must be strained indeed," the Rivaini teased as Ariadne crossed the hall to collect her coat. "Not to mention his _breeches_, from what I could see."

Worked Antivan leather crumpled to the floor. "Isabela!"

"The man has a shiny buckle right over his _groin_, Ariadne," the pirate replied, collecting the coat from the floor and helping her friend into it, "he was _asking_ me to look."

"You're terrible," the mage muttered, her lips twisting as a giggle bubbled up in her throat. "You're literally the worst person in the entire world!"

Isabela pulled the leather coat up onto her friend's shoulders. "But you love me," she purred into the younger woman's ear.

"Oh I do," Ariadne replied, laughing openly now. "I really, really do."

Suddenly she stopped, turning on the spot to point accusingly at her buxom friend. "Now hand them over."

Smouldering Rivaini eyes twinkled mischievously. "Hand what?"

Slipping her fingers into the scarf cinching her friend's waist, Ariadne pulled out a slender potion bottle which she held up under Isabela's nose.

"Oh _that_," Bela replied, feigning innocence, "can't I keep just one?"

Ignoring the pirate's infamous pout, the young mage turned her attention to fastening her dragonbone buttons. "Only if you take the other six out of your boots."

"Do you want to frisk me?" her friend asked, slipping her arms around Ariadne's waist. "I'll let you have them if you _frisk_ me for them."

The rogue's fingertips jabbed into that ticklish spot above the mage's hipbones. "Bela..."

Shrugged off, Isabela sighed in abject disappointment. "Spoilsport," she said, fishing the bottles from her boots and dumping them on a nearby table. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Her coat fastened, Ariadne turned to grin at the pirate. "Don't doubt it."

Bela smiled in return, taking the younger woman's hand and squeezing it tightly before heading for the door. "Tell that apostate boy of yours I'm thinking about him," she called back over her shoulder.

"I'll do no such thing," the mage replied, rolling her hair under the collar of her coat.

"Love you!" Bela shouted from the open door.

"Love you too," Ariadne called in return.

Fishing her gloves from her pocket the young mage glanced at the table where her friend had left her contraband. There were only four bottles. She smiled.

* * *

><p>The vision faded, but for the first time only darkness remained. Cut adrift even from the Fade, Anders' voiced echoed from no particular place into the unending void. "Bethany? Bethany are you there? Bethany she's back, we're going to be alright."<p>

But no answering echo, no words came. "Bethany? Please Bethany, just let me hear your voice. Please?"

Colours swirled, visions clouding in on the emptiness, and somehow that felt more terrifying than what was falling away.

"Don't leave me alone."

* * *

><p>The throne hall hummed with chatter as the Viscount sifted through the papers ranged on the table placed before him. In the course of the session no fewer than five nobles had submitted propositions for how to proceed on the so-dubbed 'Undercity Issue'. From those offered, five points had been taken from joint paper submitted by the senior members of the Privy Council, and the remaining seven had been compromised from the other submissions. The process had taken hours, but the court was nothing if not methodical, which naturally meant <em>achingly<em> slow. From her seat among the Speakers, Ariadne smiled to hear that many of the points had translated almost directly from her conversations with the Viscount. Privy Councillor Armon Vernet had often been present at her meetings with Dumar, and it was no doubt his good opinion that had moved her position a solid 6 seats towards the centre of the speakers' row.

At last, with the points arbitrated, Marlowe Dumar stood before the chamber. "Well, my good ladies and gentlemen," he declared genially, "it would seem that the matter is settled. Our measures here will take effect from tomorrow morning, and we can all rest easier in our beds knowing that this dark period is at last coming to an end. We would like to thank you all for your attendance, and for your efforts."

Ariadne almost started out of her chair. The Viscount was looking _right_ at her. Not simply to her, as he might glance to any of his courtiers during such an address, but right at her, his own glacial eyes meeting hers. "We hope to see all of you again very soon."

As she rose with the other dismissed speakers, heading outwards in two lines from the centre to the periphery of the hall, Ariadne could feel many new eyes on her. As she passed along the side of the chamber, past the spectators in the viewing gallery, she could hear her name slip from person to person.

_Hawke, scion of the Amells._

_Ariadne Amell, daughter of the lady Leandra._

_Made a fortune in the Deep Roads._

_Saved the Viscount's boy._

She had been noted. She had been _noticed_.

As she waited outside the chamber to greet her associates and allies, Ariadne could hear the word passing from the spectators to the guard. Word of what they had achieved, and word of her part in it.

"Mother will be thrilled," she muttered under her breath to Sebastian as she curtseyed for the umpteenth time.

"She had every right to be, my lady," he replied. His smile was warm, and Ariadne was glad that the prince had accepted her stumbling apology for her earlier behaviour.

'It was just a bit of idle banter between friends.'

'Of course, it was my fault entirely. I should have met you as we had arranged.'

'I'm sorry if I upset you.'

'No offence taken, my lady.'

Of course, all the reassurance in the world couldn't stop the feeling in her stomach, the sickly feeling that she would live to regret the Viscount's regard.

As it was she smiled sweetly, swallowed down her nerves and played the courtier, as was expected. The good little scholar that she was, she almost managed to convince herself that it didn't feel wrong.

* * *

><p><strong>NOTES: <strong>Less of a cliffhanger, I feel, more of a build up of things to be worrying about. Huzzah! We are almost at the end of the quarantine now. It will probably be done with by chapter 18, before we head on in to territories new. I will say, at this juncture, that I intend for the periods covered by the game to be far shorter than my between acts material. Some things I feel will be vital - anything including Carver or Anders, obviously, but I won't be exhaustive. I'll cover important bits and mention any important decisions. I do regret not covering Feynriel's quest, but I'll try and make up for that in the next section, which runs from the end of the quarantine (which takes just over a year) to the beginning of act 3. There are some big time skips in that section, and I doubt it will take as long as the quarantine in terms of chapters, but I'm nothing if not prone to expanding...

**TL;DR**: Act 1 was section 1, the quarantine takes about 14 months in total and is section 2, section 3 covers the aftermath of the quarantine and heads right on to the beginning of Act 3.

I can't tell you how great it is to have so many lovely readers and get so many great reviews. Much appreciation also to my DA fiance/soon-to-be husband who I read this to every now and again. I'm off to get married now. See you in a few weeks!


	17. The Long Night

_A/N:_ Hello lovely readers! I'm back in internet land and writing chapters and everything. I thought you might like to know, maybe?

Manda's news: I am now married and no longer a student. This is very strange. So far, however, it's a lot of fun.

I'm hoping to start posting regularly again, beginning by getting my chapter buffer back in place. The end of the quarantine is in sight - so expect drama and Anders and Ariadne actually being in the same room for the first time in a year/ten chapters. It's exciting, I promise.

Anyway, I'll let you get on with reading now. You've waited long enough!**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 17: The Long Night<strong>

The brazier was burning poorly in the clinic's living room, and Anders found himself pulling his coat tighter around himself. The chill was unending, seeming to get into his very bones if he didn't move around enough. He wriggled his toes in his boots as a scuffling noise outside the door announced the boy's imminent arrival.

"Evening," he called, bending forward to throw another log on the struggling blaze.

The door slammed sharply shut in response.

Frowning, the mage glanced back over his shoulder in the direction of the door. "Everything alright?" he asked, seeing the flushed cheeks and heaving breathing that told him Teller had been running.

"It's over," the boy panted. "The quarantine. They're going to let us out."

"Out?" Anders exclaimed, almost leaping to his feet. "Ariadne was only trying to get them to send us _aid_."

Teller shrugged, dropping breathlessly into a chair. "It's all over Darktown," he replied. "They're saying we'll be out before the start of Haring."

If it were true, if it were _only_ true.

"Well that's wonderful, Teller," the mage said quietly, rounding the table and settling a hand on the boy's shoulder, "but surely they're mistaken."

Before Teller could reply the door had crashed open yet again. This time Perrin entered, her eyes wide and excited.

"Have you heard?" she gasped, continuing before Anders had a second to open his mouth. "The quarantine's over. The folks in the Fereldan camp are throwing a party to celebrate."

The mage sighed deeply, this was not going to end well.

* * *

><p>Lady Harimann's salon had lasted, as Ariadne had feared, far too long. Whether this was because such things always dragged on for hours, or whether the events at court had something to do with it, she wasn't experienced enough to say. All the mage knew was that she had endured a deadly dull evening surrounded by flatterers, self-fanciers and fools. Chantry protocol had prevented her from bringing Sebastian, and when she had tried to invite Varric the dwarf had laughed in her face. She had had to speak to four noble's sons. <em>Four<em>. Never mind that she was anything _but _ the type of girl the scene usually made matches for, but despite all her previous protests Leandra had actively been encouraging them. Something would have to be done. She would simply have to tough it out and tell her mother about her feelings for Anders. How the woman hadn't guessed as much was beyond her.

The walk home was cold, but the night was bright with stars. In the narrow backways there was little wind, and Ariadne could hear the tail of her mother's cloak slipping over the cobbles behind them. The rustling sound made her shiver, bringing her mind back to the night she and her companions finally left the Deep Roads.

"_Daylight," Varric gasped, his voice half hoarse. "Maker's breath it's burning my eyes."_

_The breeze against her cheeks was sweet, even under layers of dirt she could feel it playing against her skin. Cool, soft tendrils of air. She breathed slowly, her eyes closed against the harsh glare._

"_That is no daylight," Fenris muttered painfully, breaking his silence of many days. "Those are stars."_

"_Stars, moon, sun, it all stings just the same," the dwarf grumbled in response._

_Beside her, a twig creaked and snapped. A set of familiar fingers curled around her own._

"_It's beautiful," Anders said softly, his voice filled with awe._

"Didn't you think that lute-player was wonderful?" Leandra asked, breaking her reverie.

Ariadne blinked. "The lute-player?" she echoed blankly. In all the endless conversation with dull nobles and would-be nobles, she'd scarcely noticed that there had been music at all.

"I suppose you were a little distracted," her mother replied, answering herself with a warm chuckle.

The mage smiled, her cheeks colouring. "Yes," she admitted, "yes I suppose I was."

At the corner Leandra paused, stilling her daughter with a hand on her arm. Looking over to the doorway to the mansion, she said softly: "You missed him a great deal tonight."

Ariadne seemed, momentarily, to lose the power of speech.

Leandra smiled at her dumbstruck daughter. "Yes, darling," she murmured, her fingertips squeezing Ariadne's wrist tenderly, "I know."

Her throat was dry as she tried to speak. "How?" she half-croaked, her azure eyes full of wonder.

The older woman shook her head, laughing. "Silly girl. I'm your mother. I'd have to have been a fool not to have seen it."

Before Ariadne could respond, however, the front door had swung open. Bodhan's familiar form appeared silhouetted in the frame.

"Messeres?" he asked brightly, "I _thought_ I recognised your voices."

Really, Ariadne thought, and she could tell that her mother agreed with her, Bodahn's hearing was nothing short of _unnatural_. With matching sighs, they entered the mansion briskly, and allowed Sandal to take their cloak and coat. The young dwarf seemed unusually energetic, and his excitement appeared to be stemming from his father, whose endless chatter skirted around some question he desperately wanted to ask.

"And of course I said to myself they'll be back any minute, having seen the Conde's sedan crossing town as it was. I said: they'll be back before the chiming of the hour, didn't I my boy? Sandal? Anyway, I was right and here you are."

"Is something wrong, Bodahn?" Ariadne asked, interrupting him before he could launch into another stream of noise.

"Wrong, my lady?" he asked, seeming genuinely surprised. "No! Not at all. Not at all." He paused, looking rather sheepish. "I've only been wondering, you see, if the rumours are true?"

"The rumours?"

Bodahn nodded vigorously. "Yes, my lady. Word came from the court that the quarantine is to end."

"To _end_?" Leandra gasped, stunned. "Maker's breath is that what they're saying?"

The dwarf nodded, concern fading his excitement. "I believe so, messere," he said earnestly, "although I might be mistaken."

In that little spot just between the eyebrows, Ariadne felt the beginnings of a headache. "I'll have to write to Anders," she groaned, pressing her thumb and fingertip into the indentation, "I can't have him thinking... I'll have to write at once."

She barely heard Bodahn as she made her way across the hall to the writing table, but his meaning was clear as she approached. A letter waiting for her, but this one unmarked.

And unopened.

Her hands were trembling even as she inserted her index finger between the heavy paper folds. The wax seal cracked loudly as it broke. She opened the paper carefully, splaying it down on the tabletop, and leaning close to read in the flickering candlelight.

It was a poem, written in the cramped, ugly lettering of a disguised hand. At the sight of the first words, her heart skipped a beat, all thoughts of headache completely forgotten.

_How long it seems since I did clasp you near,_

_An age too sore, for one I hold so dear._

She smiled, her throat tightening slightly at the shared feeling.

"Anders," she whispered, brushing the tip of her thumb down the soft, torn edge of the paper, all thought of her mother and servants' presence dimming into insignificance.

_No reason holds my rhyme, nor tames my pen,_

_Gainsay me as you might, till I am yours again._

_Each night alone, tormented by my woes,_

_Do I await you, as my hunger grows._

The blush spreading across her cheeks was warm as her pulse picked up pace. For weeks now he had been teasing her, dropping little hints and comments about the things he thought, the things he wanted to do her. Now that Athenril was busy looking for politics in her letters, Anders was taking more risks with what he was saying, but _this_ was unprecedented. She drew a breath, and continued, reading the final lines.

_My love, pray come and lay your head_

_Across from me in this my lonely bed._

_Now and evermore._

She frowned slightly. How could she 'come and lay' her head now when he was still in Darktown? She scanned over the paper again, and gasped.

H A N G E D

M A N

Dropping the acrostic to the floor, she dashed across the hallway, seizing her coat from the back of the chair. With hurried excuses and a flurry of activity she raced out of the door.

* * *

><p>The boy was stilled, his excited energy drained utterly. "So we're not getting out yet," he said quietly, once Anders had finished explaining.<p>

The fire crackled angrily as the healer sighed. "No, Teller," he replied gently, reaching out to take the youngster's hand, "there's been a misunderstanding."

On the other side of the table, Perrin stood stiffly, her face pale in the wavering light. "You can't know that," she said defiantly, her hands gripping tightly to the back of a chair. "You could be wrong."

Anders shook his head. "I'm not wrong," he countered simply, not meeting the girl's steely gaze.

"But everyone else is?" she snapped back, pushing the chair away from her angrily and folding her skinny arms.

The mage got to his feet, attempting to soothe. "Perrin," he said evenly, leaving Teller and moving slowly towards the boy's sister, "don't start trying to blame this on me. The suggestions put before the Viscount only referred to the _easing_ of quarantine conditions, not its entire removal."

Her nostrils flared as she eyed him fiercely. "You can't know that for certain," she snarled, "You think you're so clever, sometimes. You always have to know _everything_."

"I'm not wrong," he replied tenderly, reaching out to her.

The red-head softened at his tone, and her eyes revealed a woundedness that Anders had rarely seen. "Maybe the Viscount was feeling generous?" she suggested, her voice half-pleading as he placed a hand on her shoulder, and the other on her cheek. She tried to pull back from him, stilled only by the sound of his voice.

"It doesn't work like that, sweetheart."

He watched the disappointment crash over her like a wave, the spark of fire dying from her eyes as her cheeks paled, the slight shift of her lower lip as the tremble wrenched a choking noise from her throat.

But before he could enfold her in his arms she had stumbled backwards from him, shaking her head. He tried to follow, but with a flash of brilliant red hair she had disappeared behind her bedroom door.

Anders stood, crestfallen, as he listened to her stifling her sobs. The doors to the bedrooms were barriers, lines only to be crossed only when invited. His heart squeezed painfully in his chest.

Carefully, he went out into the main hall of the clinic and set about ensuring that the door was fully secure. If Perrin's reaction was anything to go by, it was going to be a rough night as people realised the truth. If Ariadne had been with him, he would have considered going out into the Undercity to try and reduce the impending chaos, but he was a lone mage, and he had a family to protect.

He started getting ready for bed once he returned to the back rooms, putting things in order and lighting the lantern that would permit him to write in the night if he so desired. He was surprised to find Teller in the doorframe as he sat down on his palette to unlace his boots.

"When the guards do come," Teller asked uncertainly, scratching at his ginger crop, getting curly where it grew too long, "I mean when they send people to help us, it means the quarantine will be over soon, doesn't it?"

Anders worked slowly at the leather cords. "Yes it does," he confirmed, watching the boy closely.

"And you..." Teller trailed off, fidgeting uneasily.

"And what?"

The boy gnawed at his lip, shook his head. "Nothing, it's not important."

One and then two boots came off, leaving Anders in his socks on the rough floorboards. Looking up at Teller the mage smiled. "Shall we have a cup of tea before bedtime?" he asked quietly, "Just you and me?"

The boy breathed as if released from a harsh grip. "Yeah alright," he said, with a lop-sided smile. "I'll go and get my blanket."

* * *

><p>The path from Hightown to Low had never seemed so torturous. The streets were flooded with people, far more than a normal winter's night, far more than even the year's Satinalia. All around her, whispers and shouts and murmurs spread the rumour, and the excitement seemed to thrum to the haste of Ariandne's pulse.<p>

People believed the quarantine was over? Let them. Let them bring what chaos they may and damn the consequences if it had given him cover, if it had gotten him out.

The crowd filling the Hanged Man spilled out from every entrance, but Ariadne was known, and with a sharp shout to Corff the bartender, a way was cleared to get her in through the door. The bar was packed to the rafters, and the young mage found herself heaved and jostled about more roughly than she had even been on the crossing from Ferelden. She didn't care.

Her eyes roved continually, scanning the crowd for any sign: a face, a flash of familiar blond hair, anything.

A hand fastened around her wrist.

Unable to see her guide, Ariadne let herself be pulled in the direction of the stairwell. The glimpses she caught of the tall, hooded figure, seemed to made her blood run even faster.

But then she looked down.

In the moment before her guide lowered his hood, Ariadne already knew that it wasn't Anders. She'd have known his healer's hands anywhere, she could have drawn them in the dark.

She could barely hide her disappointment as the peace of the upper corridor revealed the brown hair and green eyes of a familiar elf.

"Fionn?"

The circle mage frowned. "You seem surprised?" he asked, his grip on her wrist softening.

Her senses in a tumult, Ariadne struggled to find any words to say. "I am surprised!" she gasped finally, pushing a hand to her temple as she leaned back against the fragile wooden wall. "Last thing I knew you were in the Gallows."

Fionn grinned. "I still am," he whispered conspiratorially. "I'm currently confined to my quarters with a severe case of 'spirit delirium'." His fingertips hovered in the air, miming quotation marks. "At least four different people will vouch for me."

"I don't understand," Ariadne replied, still utterly dumbfounded.

The elf smiled, stepping forward and taking her by the hand. "I needed to see you," he said warmly. "To talk to you properly. I've taken a room." He nodded in the direction.

"Alright."

Letting herself be led, Ariadne followed blindly, dumbly and with numbed feet. She'd been foolish, and her disappointment was her own fault alone.

And somehow, that didn't make it any better.

* * *

><p>Hot water gurgled from teapot to cup, infusing the air with the fragrance of steeped leaves. The boy closed his eyes to sniff the steam, his face relaxed and happy as he sat, curled up in his blankets at the foot of Anders' makeshift bed.<p>

The mage handed him his tea. "You were going to say something earlier, Teller," he said quietly as he turned to fill his own, "something about the end of the quarantine. Do you want to say it now?"

He poured the water slowly, giving Teller the time to think the question over.

"I don't know," came the hesitant response.

"You don't have to," Anders replied, blowing carefully on the surface of his brew. "It's up to you."

A moment's pause, and then: "When this is all over you'll be with Hawke again, won't you?"

The mage's lips curved into a smile. "I hope so, Teller," he said, "I really do."

"And us?" Teller asked quietly, avoiding Anders' gaze.

He hesitated, momentarily stunned that the boy would even feel the need to ask. He looked at the red head carefully, taking in the tension in his shoulders and around his mouth. Anders shook his head. "This is your home now," he said.

Teller nodded. "I know," he said, worrying at the edge of his blanket with his nails.

Again Anders paused. "That's not what you meant?"

The boy shook his head. "No."

Carefully placing his cup down behind him on the desk, the mage resettled himself, giving Teller his full attention. "I'm listening," he said.

"It's just..." Teller paused, lingering uneasily on his phrasing. "Are you really going to live in Hightown?"

Anders' eyebrows raised sharply. "I don't know," he admitted, his cheeks colouring slightly. "I haven't really thought that far ahead."

It was the truth. He had been so wrapped up in thoughts of what he would be free to do once the quarantine was over, that he hadn't even considered how things would be arranged with Perrin and Teller.

"You'll want to be close to her," Teller said, interrupting his thoughts. "You think about her all the time."

"I do."

"And you won't..." again the boy hesitated, picking roughly at a stray woollen strand, "you won't want to be down here... with us."

Leaning forward, Anders plucked Teller's fingers from the blanket and asked, "Did I _ever_ say that?"

The boy didn't pull back, didn't reply. His rusty fringe caught the firelight as he shook his head.

Anders wrapped his hands around the boy's fingers. "Teller, I promise you: I'm not going anywhere without you," he said. "Not unless you want me to."

There was no mistaking the heave of Teller's shoulders, or the choked note in his voice as he said, softly, "I don't."

"Well then," Anders said, sitting back in his seat. "That's settled, isn't it?"

* * *

><p>With the door closed, the noise from the bar dimmed down to a murmur. Ariadne had never been this far into the back rooms, and to be honest, she could see why. Darker and dirtier, it was clear that Bela and Varric had some of the better rooms at the inn. Not that Bela kept hers particularly clean. The room Fionn had rented seemed to be over the kitchens. It was hot with all the windows open, even in the middle of winter.<p>

With a clink of glass and the slightest tingle of magic, a lamp caught light and sputtered into brightness. It revealed Fionn standing over a table, his fingertips moving nimbly as he replaced the glass shade.

"Just like old times, hmm?" he said, glancing up at her across the room.

"I..." Ariadne smiled half-heartedly. "Yes I suppose it is a bit."

Fionn chuckled. "Don't worry, 'bug," he said, his green eyes sparkling with mischief. "That wasn't some sort of suggestion."

"What? No, I didn't think..." she stammered, blushing deeply. Grabbing a chair she sat down at the table. "I'm sorry," she sighed heavily, "I've just got a lot on my mind."

The elf slipped into the seat opposite, taking in her expression, her posture, lingering on her eyes. "You really weren't expecting _me_, were you?" he said quietly.

"Honestly, Fionn?" she said, her voice hitching slightly. She met his gaze, swallowing her emotion down. "No. I wasn't."

Fionn nodded, reaching behind him onto a sideboard to retrieve a bottle and some tumblers. The sharp tang of cheap wine filled Ariadne's nostrils as he poured, and she smiled. _Just _like old times. His eyes twinkled as he handed her a tumbler "So who's the lucky..." he paused, a smirk twisting his lips, "is it guys or girls these days?"

She chuckled. "Either, generally."

He held out his drink, and she touched the rims of their cups together. "And less generally?" he asked.

Drinking deeply, Ariadne choked on the bitterness of the wine. "Guy," she said roughly. "Or rather, man."

Fionn winced as he drank. It really was foul stuff. "The sort of man you meet via coded message?"

"The sort of man," she said, downing another gulp in the hope that the alcohol would dull her tastebuds, "who got stuck on the wrong side of the quarantine."

"He..." the elf faltered, stunned out of his humour. "I'm sorry."

Ariadne smiled, reaching out to take her friend's hand over the table. "Don't be. He's a healer. They need him down there."

Fionn cocked his head slightly. "A healer? You mean he's a..."

She grinned. "One of the finest," she said, affection warming her from within. She drew back her hand, taking another drink.

"And he's out and about?" the elf asked, sounding impressed.

"Not right now he isn't," Ariadne said, darkly.

Fionn groaned. "Sorry," he said. "Maker, I feel like such an ass."

Ariadne sniggered, tilting her empty tumbler on the tabletop. "Some people just never really change," she teased.

The elf took the hint, leaning over to refill her drink. "I'll give you that one, 'bug," he said with a chuckle, "but only 'cause I like you."

She took a deep draught, and sighed. "Well," she said, smiling up at Fionn affectionately, "I'm assuming you didn't ask me here to hear about my love life, or lack thereof."

* * *

><p>The knocking was half-hearted, little more than tapping. Anders opened the door with a smile. "You too?" he said.<p>

Draped in blankets, Perrin shifted uneasily from foot to foot. "My room is cold," she said, her small voice begrudging, "and I could hear you talking."

Anders suppressed his grin, stepping aside to let the girl shuffle into the room. "How about you both bundle up on the bed together while I put some more tea on?"

Teller scooted up, letting his sister curl into place beside him. Anders put another kettle of water on the brazier, and poured the remaining tea into the third cup. Funny how he'd thought to bring that one in with his and Teller's, Perrin's favourite.

Her smile as he handed it to her told him it hadn't gone unnoticed. "I was just telling your brother that nothing's going to change," he said, reaching to stroke a hair back from Perrin's face, "when the quarantine is over."

She snorted in response. "Of course it isn't," she said confidently. "We'll just have Ariadne too."

A little smile lit Teller's face. "What's she like?" he asked.

"Hawke?"Anders said, settling himself back down in his chair. "You met her, back on the day of the quarantine. She gave me the money when I followed you."

The boy's eyes widened. "That was her? The one you were kissing?"

Perrin gawped, first at her brother and then at Anders. "You were _kissing _her?"

"Well, yes," Anders said, aware that he was blushing as hot as the burning brazier. "Yes that was her." He frowned. "Who else would I have been kissing?"

The girl closed her mouth, blinking. "I... I dunno."

"What's she like?" Teller repeated.

Anders smiled softly. "What did you think of her?" he asked.

Teller pursed his lips, thinking. "She was pretty," he said confidently, "I thought her hair looked soft."

"It _is_ soft," the mage said, because to the best of his knowledge, it was. Of course, it would never hurt to test such a theory further.

"I think she's _very_ pretty," Perrin said, holding out her now empty cup.

"So do I," Anders replied, taking it.

"Is she nice?"Teller asked, holding out his cup in turn. "She sends you stuff. I suppose she must be nice."

The kettle was boiling, with a little 'additional' help from some sparkly fingers. Anders refilled the pot. "She is," he said. "She's kind, and she's gentle, but she believes in things. You wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of her."

"Sounds like Perrin," the boy said, giggling as his sister elbowed him in the ribs.

"I've never seen Ariadne smash a plate over someone's head before," Anders replied, chuckling, "but yes."

Perrin shrugged nonchalantly. "He deserved it," she said.

* * *

><p>"So what do you think?" Fionn asked, pouring Ariadne a third cupful of wine. "Is it a good plan?"<p>

He looked so enervated, so much more _Fionn_ than that helpless, fearful elf she had seen back in the Circle. She grinned. "I should say so," she said, shaking her head in disbelief. "How in the Maker's name did you come up with that?"

The elf chuckled, his rich voice matching the wickedness in his eyes. "I have a _lot_ of free time," he said wryly.

"I can imagine," Ariadne said, her expression faltering slightly.

"Don't try," he said, and the coldness cut through his expression like a knife. He sat forward, his gaze earnest, his anger palpable. "You've heard about the Ferelden Circle, Maker knows I bored you half to death with it. It's got _nothing_ on this place."

There was no mistaking that venom. She knew it all too well. In the voice of her father, and in the voice of the man she loved. Hearing it from her friend, from someone who had spent so many years laughing at the Chantry - teasing templars and defying petty rules - chilled her blood.

She reached out across the table, offering her hand. "Fionn?"

Slender fingers crept into her palm as the elf suppressed a shudder. "Hawke, believe me when I say that I really don't want to talk about it," he said firmly. "I just want to get out."

"Of course," she said, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles, unable to fathom his hurt. "I'll do whatever it takes."

Fionn cleared his throat, blinking as he withdrew his hand. "I knew we could count on you," he said, and laughed. "I've never been so glad to be proven right." They drained their cups, both hovering on the point of speech, neither taking the leap. She saw the change come over him before he spoke, the mask coming back up. "So tell me about this healer of yours," he said, all dazzling eyes and impish grin. "How did you meet?"

* * *

><p>More tea, in appropriate cups, made its way into the children's hands. "We're going to have to do something about keeping this place warm," Anders tutted, pulling a spare blanket out from beneath his pallet. "You're both still shivering." He paused, suddenly frowning as he glanced at them. "You're not coming down with something, are you?"<p>

Perrin rolled her eyes. "You worry too much," she said, sighing as he looked into her eyes.

"It's my job," the mage said, checking her pupils, before shifting across to look at Teller.

"So how did you meet her?" the boy asked, poking his tongue out for inspection, or mischief, or both.

"She just showed up," Anders said, shrugging.

"Like Perrin did?"

"Almost exactly like Perrin did," he said, smiling. "Although I don't think I threatened her." He turned to the girl, raising an eyebrow. "Did I?" he asked.

Perrin chuckled.

"You threatened Hawke?" Teller asked.

The girl answered for him. "They came in a group," she said. "Hawke and her brother, a dwarf called Varric and the Captain of the Guard."

Anders nodded. "I could tell that one of them had magic," he said, "and besides that they were all carrying weapons. I thought perhaps that they were mercenaries."

"But they weren't?"

"No Teller," Perrin droned, looking at her brother as if her were the dimmest boy in the world, "she was a smuggler."

The boy frowned deeply. "Was she?" he asked, looking at Anders for confirmation. "I'd remember someone like her."

"She used to look a bit... scruffy," Anders said, unhelpfully.

"She wore her hair _up_," Perrin snapped, shooting the mage an irritated glance. "You remember, Teller, the one who killed those slavers before Anders went away?"

"_That_ was her?"

"She was covered in blood at the time," Anders added, still unhelpfully.

"I met her," Teller said, clearly surprised. "She used to work at Athenril's place."

"She did," Perrin said, relieved to have established the connection. "I think she was pretty high up in the group."

Teller nodded. "She was," he said fervently. "I was always running messages up to Lowtown to get her. Sometimes in the middle of the night."

Anders coughed into his tea, his cheeks colouring slightly. "That's a smuggler's life for you," he said, clearing his throat.

* * *

><p>"So this smuggler is reading all of your letters?" Fionn asked, pouring the who-knew-how-many-th tumbler full of wine for Ariadne.<p>

"Every single one," she sighed, pushing a hand through her hair.

"Because she's jealous?" he asked, smirking across at her.

"Because she's looking for excuses," Ariadne said, clarifying. "Excuses for revenge."

"So she's jealous."

Sensing that she was unlikely to win the argument, she sighed. "It's not as bad as it was," she said. "We've got her more or less convinced that he's half-mad over Carver."

"That he's..."

She smirked back at him over the rim of her cup. "It's a long story."

Green eyes sparkled mischievously. "Oh that's rich," Fionn chuckled. "You always were a cunning little minx."

"Not cunning enough," she replied bitterly. "He's been getting more daring now we've lulled her but she's still reading everything. If I thought she were just opening them..." she trailed off, sighing heavily, "but she makes comments. She reads every word."

"And you think the moment you say anything, she'll twig." Fionn said, watching her closely.

Ariadne nodded. "She'll realise we've been laughing at her, that we've been going under her pointy, bitch nose this whole time," she said.

"And that would make everything ten times worse," he said.

"Exactly."

* * *

><p>"You said she had a brother?" Perrin asked, after a pause in the conversation. Beside her, Teller was drooping somewhat, sleep threatening to claim him at last.<p>

"I did," Anders said, nodding. "She does."

"What's he like?"

The mage smiled, stirring the embers with a poker. "Apart from grumpy and annoying?" he said, remembering Carver's ability to sulk, his endless complaining. "Not too bad, on a good day."

Outside, beyond the back rooms and the Clinic's heavy doors, Anders could hear the noise of people. A drunken rabble careering through Dark Town in high spirits, for the moment. He wondered how their mood would change when the truth set in. Teller roused at the noise, and the alarm in his expression made the mage glad he had barred the door. He poured more tea, and reassured them both.

"A good day?" Teller asked once he had resettled, alert now to the slightest sound from without.

Anders had often wondered how much the boy remembered of his mother's death, but the fear in both the children's eyes as the shouting crowd drew nearer made the matter clear enough. He bustled over the brazier, filling the room with the crackle of flaming logs to mask the noise of the revellers.

"He and Ariadne don't get on so well," he said plainly, returning heavily to his seat. "He doesn't like that she's older. That she always takes charge."

Teller frowned, his ginger brows knitting together in confusion. "Why? Someone's got to look after things," he said, glancing at his sister. "Better Perrin than me."

"You're six years younger than your sister, Teller," Anders replied. "Ariadne is only three years older than Carver."

"And that makes a difference?"

Anders thought of Carver's resentment, the smouldering ember that drove him to betray the sister who was only trying to protect him. "Yes," he said quietly. "It does as it happens."

The flames snapped and rustled, and he was running out of water to refill the pot. It had to be past 2 in the morning, 3 even, in the city above. She would be asleep now, her head cushioned in softness, her hair fanned out over the pillow, curled small on a sprawling bed.

Teller's voice, hesitant and sleepy, broke his reverie. "Do you... do you think she'll like us, ser?"

"Teller, I told you not to call me that," Anders said, frowning.

"But will she like us?" the boy persisted, sitting up slightly, dislodging Perrin's head from his shoulder.

"Of course she will silly," the girl grumbled, adjusting her position. "She loves him."

"I don't see what that's got to do with anything," Teller replied irritably, scowling at his sleepy sister.

"Perrin's got a point," Anders said, interrupting the budding argument. "I care about you, and she will too."

The girl smirked triumphantly. "She loves him and he loves us," she said, digging her elbow into the boy's ribs, "silly."

"I didn't think of it like that," Teller said, rubbing his eyes. "I thought step-mothers were usually evil."

"You read too many tales," Perrin yawned.

* * *

><p>Their laughter died as the Chantry bell rang dimly in through the window. Ariadne ran a hand over her face, her mind a little muzzy with sleep and alcohol. It was three in the morning. "Fionn," she said, her voice croaky from the wine and overuse, "I should go."<p>

The elf chuckled, getting up and following her to the door. "I understand," he said, leaning up against the door frame, all familiar swagger and eye-twinkling charm. "I had hoped you might be feeling a little... nostalgic? But I understand."

She cupped his cheek in her hand, running the base of her thumb over the side of his mouth, the imperceptible lump of scar tissue that only she knew was there. "I knew you would," she said affectionately, flicking his braid.

"This healer's a lucky guy," Fionn said, his voice as relaxed and slurry as her own. "You're a good five times as beautiful as the last time I saw you. You changed your hair."

Ariadne laughed, leaning in to the door. "What is it with my hair?" she asked, pulling back her hand to catch a strand of it. "I never thought there was a problem with how it was."

"It wasn't a problem," the elf replied with a shrug. "But you always did look better with it down."

The mischief in his eyes wavered momentarily, and he reached out a hand towards her face. She caught it, holding it in both her own, between them.

"Thank you, Fionn," she said, with a note of finality.

The grin flashed back into place. "Anytime, Hawke," he said, giving her fingers a playful squeeze.

"About that," Ariadne said, resting a hand on the door handle. "If you write to me again, it might be best if you don't call me 'Hawke'."

The elf nodded. "Too conspicuous? You probably have a point," he said, and then smiled. "Although I'm not sure addressing a letter to 'Tinderbug' is going to work."

"I wasn't going to suggest that," she laughed. "Send your letters to 'Ariadne', care of the Amell estate."

"Ariadne?"

"It's a common enough name among folk with romantics for parents," she said wryly. "Not many people know it. It should be safe enough."

"You mean that's your..." he hesitated, startled into sobriety. "Why in the world didn't you tell me?"

"Because you were an arse, of course," she said, grinning.

Fionn laughed humourlessly, something rueful twisting at his mouth. "All this time," he said, "everything we've… and I didn't even know." For a moment he looked almost bitter, but he drew himself up and smiled. "Well," he said brightly, "Ariadne is a pretty enough name. I'll endeavour to make better use of it in future."

"I'm glad."

He nodded, placing a hand on her shoulder. "So am I," he said warmly. "I'll send the word to you soon, once I've told the others."

"Good," she said, turning the handle. "I can't promise I'll come to the Gallows again, too much is at stake."

"I wouldn't ask you to," Fionn said, squeezing her shoulder before letting her go. "Take of yourself, Ariadne."

* * *

><p>Outside the Clinic, the sounds had died away almost to nothing. It seemed the revellers had returned to their homes, such as they were. Anders was relieved - sore heads and grumbling grudges in the morning were far better than the alternative.<p>

"I think Perrin's fallen asleep," Teller said quietly.

"You look pretty tired yourself," Anders replied, settling himself back as best he could in his chair. "How about you just get some sleep?"

The boy opened his mouth to protest, but yawned instead. "Yes, ser."

"I told you not to call me that," the mage chided gently, pulling his coat close around him. "Goodnight Teller."

"Goodnight, Dad."

He would ache like death in the morning, but as Anders fell asleep in his chair he couldn't help feeling that it had been worth it.

* * *

><p>The chill in the air outside the Hanged Man brought Ariadne sharply back to her senses. With the front of house closed, she had snuck out of the back door. In the darkness, the unfamiliar surroundings took a moment to rationalize.<p>

"Hawke."

The voice nearly shocked her out of her skin, as blue light flared in the night's pitch darkness. "Fenris?" she said, her voice little more than a strangled gasp. "What in the Void are you doing here?"

Leaning up against the wall beside her, the elf regarded her with cold eyes. "I could ask you the same question," he said harshly. "_I_ am not sneaking out of the back door."

As her magic spiked with alarm, Ariadne fought to keep her voice calm. "Have you been following me?" she asked.

For her pains she received a chuckle, nothing more. Anger crept in to her fear.

"I know we're not exactly on the best of terms," she said firmly, watching him as closely as she could through the darkness, "but I thought you'd at least have the decency to respect my privacy."

The elf stretched out from the wall, leading the way out of the back alley. "If I were kept informed of your activities," he said coolly, "I would have no need."

Ariadne followed warily. "Perhaps," she said, wrapping her arms around herself. "Perhaps I should try and keep a closer eye on my associates. I've let myself get too caught up in other things lately."

Fenris chuckled again, mounting the steps. The sound made her fingers twitch. "You mean supplying potions to your pet abomination?" he said darkly.

"I mean supplying potions to the helpless victims of the _cholera_, Fenris," she snapped angrily, tired of his misjudgements, his bitterness.

"It is a wasted effort" the elf sneered, turning to look down at her. "Those people are doomed as it is."

"I _refuse_ to believe that," she replied fiercely, stepping up to his level. "There are refugees down there, and orphans and elves. Surely you understand why I want to help them?"

She was being loud and they were in public, but she couldn't bring herself to care. She glared at him with the full force of her conviction, and for a moment it gave him pause.

"And would any of them do the same for you?" he asked quietly.

"That's not the point," she said bitterly, pushing on past him up the narrow steps to Hightown, her voice echoing. "Life isn't fair. I have the skills my father gave me, and I intend to use them to help as many of the sufferers as possible."

"Then you should supply them all with poisons," he said, his voice carrying up after her. "End their _sufferings_ once and for all."

She turned, looking down at him coldly. "You think I haven't?" she said, quietly.

"What?"

A smile curved her lip, and she stepped back down towards him, slowly. "I believe in mercy, Fenris," she said. "Anders always has a supply of the things he needs to help those beyond any other help."

The elf hesitated, looking at her in disbelief. "You help him kill them?" he asked.

She snorted derisively. "You suggested it yourself," she said firmly. "Some suffering is needless, and has only one solution." She paused, watching his expression. "Have I shocked you?" she asked.

"I had not thought..." the elf faltered, his expression dark. "I had believed you innocent of such things."

"I have the skills my father gave me," she replied, labouring every word.

* * *

><p>Silence fell over the cave. Ariadne felt her throat tightening horribly.<p>

"Father always was able to shut you up," Carver said quietly, his head resting in her lap.

She hadn't realised he was awake.

"Parents are like that," she said, teasing her fingers through his hair. "I think the Maker gives them special powers."

"Did I hurt you?" he asked.

She could feel him looking up at her. She didn't look down.

"Mmm?" she said, leaning away towards the fire. "You should rest more."

Her brother struggled, trying to sit himself up. He was so weakened that it took little more than a hand on his chest to stop him. "Ariadne, please," he said, his voice roughened and fearful, "tell me if I hurt you."

"You didn't hurt me," she lied.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading! I promise not to take so long next time. Let me know what you think! I'm going to try and catch up with all my lovely messages!<em>


	18. The Unsaid

**Notes: **A few things today.

Firstly, I've done a frankly staggering amount of work on the next ten chapters in the last fortnight, so you can expect fairly regular updates from now and for the foreseeable future.

Secondly, AdamGontierIsMine has informed me that we have some competition. There is another story floating about on here about a mage Hawke romancing Anders who is called Ariadne. The story is also called Hindsight. Given that this may cause confusion I am trying to resolve this. In the meantime, this is the original Hindsight, accept no substitutes.

Thirdly, I want to thank everyone for sticking with me during my hiatus, and for giving such honestly lovely reviews. If anyone is interested, I am looking for a beta again, as I don't want to assume my previous readers are still on board. If you are, drop me a line!

Onwards, then, with much disclaiming!**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 18 – The Unsaid<strong>

Despite his weakness, Carver forced himself upright. As he collected himself, breathing heavily to dispel the dizziness threatening to send him back to the floor, Ariadne struggled to find something, _anything_ to distract him.

She failed.

"Why won't you show me your face," he asked, turning to face her unsteadily, dragging himself around. She turned away, shuffling through the pouch of letters unnecessarily. He reached for her, fighting to maintain his balance. "Sister, please," he said, his voice shaking. "Please look at me."

Fingers, so very like her father's fingers, cupped and turned her chin. She closed her eyes.

"Maker's breath."

She shook her head from his touch, turning towards the fire, moving away. "It's nothing," she said faintly. "I tripped over myself. I'll heal it up in a second."

"Ariadne..."

"I _tripped_."

She bent over the fire, focusing on the heat as opposed to the aching, feeling the glow spreading into her cheeks. She breathed slowly, listening to the snap and the crackle of the flames.

They did not mask her brother's sob.

The sound stunned her, freezing her to the spot. She had heard Carver cry before. She had heard him in the nights on the ship from Ferelden. She had heard him when drunken after the Guard refused him. She had heard him as a child.

It wasn't the fact that Carver was crying that shocked Ariadne, it was how much he sounded like their father.

* * *

><p>Ariadne was seventeen years old the first time she heard her father cry. By the log pile at the back of the house, she stood frozen, torn between terror and agony, knowing that she was intruding even as she stood on the opposite side of a flimsy wall.<p>

Such a hollow sound, so broken and alone. Muffled little by the slats, the strangled gasping seemed to be choking her, and she felt utterly powerless.

A year before she would have gone in to him, gone to his and mother's room and just _asked_ why he was crying. She would have tried to fix it, offered to do whatever was in her power to help.

But now, less than six months after... after Kester, there was little to no doubt that he would refuse.

It was almost a month before Malcolm told them that Nestor Carrivick was dead.

* * *

><p>Shaking with effort, choking on tears of fear and anger, Carver did not even struggle as Ariadne helped him back against the wall.<p>

"I know about the delirium," he said quietly, as she began healing him once more. "I know what it does and what it can mean for those around me. I know what will happen, and so do you." He paused with a hiss, wincing as bone fragments knitted together. "You've been watching me for signs of the yellow sweats," he muttered through gritted teeth.

Ariadne hesitated, feeling the extent of the damage to his muscle tissues. Thousands of torn fibres, capillaries and ligaments, each requiring minute care and perfect concentration to be healed properly, and she had not the time or energy for either. "Yes," she said, "I have been."

Trembling fingertips touched her cheek, and she flinched away from the pain. "I did this," Carver whispered, avoiding her eyes even as he stared into her face. "I hurt you."

She covered his hand with her own, drawing it down into her lap. "You didn't mean to."

He scoffed, pushing back from her in anger. "Intention means nothing," he said venomously, forcing himself to make eye contact with her, no matter how much it hurt. "In the delirium even a Knight Commander can't restrain the beast within them."

Ariadne sniggered despite herself. "Knight Commanders are hardly the best examples, Carver."

But her humour was lost on him. "Don't," he choked, dropping his head into his hands. "Don't try and turn this into a joke. Don't do what you _always_ do."

The snarl wasn't intended for her, but she felt it anyway. Her hands lay empty in her lap.

Empty? Not empty, full.

No, empty.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, staring into her lap. Seeing something, nothing, something again.

"No." Her father's... _Carver's_ hands returned, bringing her back. "No don't apologise. Ariadne... _sister_, you're a mage." She could see the tremor in his face, his fear bright in his eyes. "When I'm in the delirium, when my body is starving, there will be nothing that can stop me."

She shook herself, stepping back from him and getting to her feet, wriggling her fingers. "It won't come to that," she said, trying to be reassuring.

"I've seen what can happen," he sighed. "In the madness a Templar will take the lyrium from a mage's veins."

She looked at him. That he could be so matter of fact. Not helpless or hopeless, merely resigned. "I know," she said, watching to see it in his face.

But he didn't look up, didn't force her to confront it. "If you chain me," he said quietly, "I will break my bonds. If you put up barriers I will smash them down, damaged legs or no."

She moved towards him, needing confirmation that he understood, that he knew what would be necessary. "I know, Carver," she said, kneeling down, waiting for him to look up. "I know."

He looked up. He knew.

He knew and it seemed to take her breath.

"Then what will you do?" he said.

* * *

><p>She reached for the bottle but father's hands stopped her, fixing over the rim and the neck and the cork, in a tight pinch and holding it aloft. "The strange thing about poisons, child," he said with his voice as big as the world, "is how they balance each other out. Dosed correctly, a man poisoned can take another to heal himself. Balanced perfectly, he can take a hundred different poisons and <em>not<em> die."

She watched the tiny vial, wondering. Was it blue or green?

"Magic?" she asked, thinking that perhaps it was black. Her voice was young, younger than she remembered it. Like she were hearing it from the outside, like an echo.

He chuckled, brushing a mammoth knuckle against her cheek. "No, Ariadne," he said indulgently, "not magic. Or no more magic than there is in a flower or a breath of air. If we are to find a charm in a potion or an object it is we who must put it there. We spell our potions to make them stronger, but they cannot spell themselves."

With a flourish of deft fingers the vial vanished, and Ariadne giggled in delight. "But how?" she asked.

He smiled, so warm and tender, bending towards her, sharing a secret. "I don't know," he whispered, and she felt her mouth fall open. "It will take far wiser heads than ours to answer such a question." He paused, giving her a moment to take in the world-shattering thought that there was something her father did not know. "I know the _effects_ however," he said, recapturing her attention, "and I will teach you, if you wish to learn."

-X—

The vision swam into monochrome, leaving Anders drifting. No ground. No world to stand in. Only visions and the dark.

A voice broke the silence. "Father?"

He turned, tried to see the speaker, saw nothing. "Bethany?" he called, hoping and fearing in equal measure. "Is that you?"

She didn't hear him. He couldn't see where she was. "_Father_?"

* * *

><p>"Bethany?"<p>

Her father looked up, suddenly alert as he glanced around the room.

The girl giggled. "Ariadne, Pa," she teased, pinching his hairy forearm. "Bethany's out with mother at the market."

But Malcolm didn't smile. He frowned. "No, I... I thought I heard Bethany's voice," he said, shaking himself slightly. He shrugged apologetically. "Sorry, sweetheart."

* * *

><p>There were hands on her face. Father's... no <em>Carver's<em> hands. "Are you alright?" he said, as she blinked to bring the cave back in to focus. "Ariadne?"

She pulled back from him, sitting down on her ankles. She had been slumped forward, supported by her brother's arms. The motion made her dizzy, and she closed her eyes. "What happened?"

"You just sort of... drifted off," he said, sounding half-amused in his concern.

"Sorry," she said. "I don't know what came over me."

He let her settle herself, waiting as she took a sip of their remaining cold tea, regrouping. "Do you have a plan?" he asked gently.

"I do," she said solemnly.

That surprised him. She saw the way he tensed, bracing himself. "What is it?"

"It's best that you don't know."

* * *

><p>The elf's eyes widened dramatically. "Ooh," she said, taking a bottle, shimmery in vivid yellows, from the pile, "this one looks exciting. What does it do?"<p>

Ariadne snorted, leaning back in her chair. "That one? It unblocks drains."

Merrill frowned, little furrows appearing in her vallaslin. "Why would you bring a drain unblocker?" she asked, cocking her head slightly.

Closing the book, Ariadne lay down her quill on top of it with a sigh. The wind howled outside the inn, and she drew her blanket tighter around herself. "We've been staying in these taverns for months now, haven't we Merrill?"

The elf girl nodded, and Ariadne found herself wondering how someone so much older could still be so young. "How would you describe them?" she asked.

Merrill paused, pursing her lips as she thought. "Well," she said, "they're quite vibrant, busy, exciting... Honestly? They're not very nice."

Ariadne nodded, fraying the end of her quill between her fingertips. "And in that time," she continued, "isn't it surprising that we've _never_ had a blocked drain?"

"I suppose so, I hadn't really thought about it."

"Because you haven't had to," she sighed.

"Ooh," Merrill said, dropping the vial in a heartbeat and reaching for another, a narrow bottle in a tooled leather pouch. "What does this one do?"

But Ariadne's reflexes stopped her, covering the vial with her hand. "_Don't_ touch that," she warned, softening her sharpness with a smile. "Just leave it in the pouch."

"Hawke?"

She leant back, looking up at the hesitance in the elf's expression before glancing at the door. It was shut, but she lowered her voice nonetheless. "How much do you know about the Principle of Toxic Balance?" she asked.

Merrill gasped. "It's _poison_?"

Carefully, Ariadne plucked up the bottle by its purse-strings, holding them to light. The pouch was black, tooled in scrolling silver markings, a warning in Old Arcanum. The neck of the bottle stood proud from the leather, its contents inky even against the lamp. "It's four," she said quietly, unable to mask the hitch in her voice. "A blend commonly known as the Black Suspension. Four different effects to hold your body at the point of death, to suspend your mind even lower than the Fade itself."

"Lower than the Fade?" Merrill echoed, disbelieving. "How is that even possible?"

Taking a cloth, Ariadne withdrew the bottle from its pouch, holding the glass over the lamp. "There's a place," she said, glad to see that the cork had remained secure, "or so it would seem, between the Fade of the dreamer and the Fade of the dead. If you're in the Fade when you die you walk from one to the other, and never see the gap. But there is a darkness in between, a void." She placed the bottle and pouch together on the table, looking over at her companion. "Some people call it limbo."

Merrill watched her. _Really_ watched her, her green eyes filled with horror and fear. "Why would you want something like that?" she breathed.

"Sometimes the best medicines are kill or cure," Ariadne replied, her voice echoing with her father's words.

The elf digested the information slowly, watching the bottle as if it might explode.

"What's the oily bit?" she asked, eventually.

"Deathroot seed oil," Ariadne said, watching the way the inky fluid separated.

"_That_," Merrill said faintly, "is an expensive bottle."

"The most expensive in the bag," Ariadne said, tucking it back into the pouch. "You have to shake it well, and you can't leave a drop."

"Or it will kill you?" the elf asked.

"Or it will kill you," Ariadne echoed.

"Well," Merrill giggled, "remind me to stay in your good books, won't you?"

Ariadne sniggered. "If I didn't use it on you when you were a _Blood Mage_ I doubt I ever will."

The elf snorted. "I'd have to do something awful if I wanted to top that!"

They laughed, descending into hysterics for the first time in months. Laughing openly at themselves, at each other and their situation. Laughing despite everything, and because of everything.

Out in the corridor, a floorboard creaked, extinguishing their humour. Ariadne watched the door, feeling her pulse drumming in her fingertips as she gripped the table.

Merrill's hands covered her own, prising them from the wood as the footsteps retreated.

"Hawke," she whispered urgently, her elven skin cool against Ariadne's own, "if you're frightened... of him_..._ you _can_ tell me."

Ariadne laughed, a bitter bark of noise. Pulling back from her friend she got to her feet, and began sweeping the bottles from the table and back into her bag.

"I'm not frightened of anything anymore."

* * *

><p>This time Carver's voice was nothing short of alarmed. "Ariadne?" he said, gripping her by the shoulders, shaking her.<p>

"Sorry," she gasped, covering her mouth as a wave of nausea washed over her, trembling with unknown exertion. "I just... I don't know what happened."

He didn't withdraw his grip. "It was like you didn't know I was here," he said sharply. "Your eyes were open but you weren't saying anything. Are you alright?"

"I'll be fine," she whispered, passing her hands over her face but feeling nothing. She looked at them, seeing and not seeing. "I think I need to keep telling the story, that's all."

* * *

><p>Fionn sent word less than a week after the meeting at the Hanged Man.<p>

_Tinderbug,_

_Further to our discussion, I enclose a small gift. You may recognise the work, a little trick I picked up from a genius I met one time. _

_Let me know when you've had time to peruse,_

_Furry Sultana_

Fionn's 'gift' was another parchment, sealed with purple wax. Its appearance on the desk gave her pause. Taking it between her fingers she turned it over in her hands, feeling the spellwork tingle.

A Jinx? Did he really not trust her? She felt surprised, and more than a little hurt by the implication.

She wrote back immediately

_Fionn,_

_Is such a thing really necessary? I know that this is a sensitive matter, I do, but I had thought that we understood each other by now._

_I will look it over if you insist, _

_Ariadne_

* * *

><p>Anders fell, landing hard on something solid, a surface.<p>

"Well," he muttered, rising from his hands and knees onto his feet, "at least there's some sort of ground."

Darkness still enveloped him, but the ground extended in every direction he chose to walk. The space seemed endless, even when he tried to sound it out. "Bethany? Bethany, are you here?"

No answer.

"No answer, hmm?" he said, determined to fill the silence, the void, with something. "Well if you're sulking I have to say that I think it's a _bit_ inappropriate. After all, you're the one that's left me here."

No answer. Nothing of any kind.

"Wherever here is."

* * *

><p>The boy's eyes brightened with excitement. "And you don't mind?"<p>

Anders smiled indulgently. "Not if you keep out of trouble," he said.

"I can watch?" Teller repeated, as if he did not dare believe it.

"Yes," Anders said, ruffling the boy's hair as he reached past him for his coat. "Just watch, for now at least."

The request had not been entirely unexpected. Ever since Teller had stopped calling him 'ser' he had been acting differently. Where before the working of the nurses had been strange and alien, now they had become objects of fascination. Anders could hardly count the number of times he had found the boy behind him in the cupboard, or bending over the latest delivery from Ariadne, his eyes full of wonder and his mouth bursting with questions. That eventually he would want to follow Anders and Perrin out on their rounds, had become almost inevitable.

With the list for the day in his bag, the children on either side and Cara behind them, Anders felt particularly cheerful making his rounds that morning. There were notably fewer and fewer cases of the cholera, and even the threat of a winter influenza seemed to be holding off. They passed through the Ferelden camp with little more than a few grotty stomach bugs and a wrenched shoulder. As they approached what was left of the marketplace, however, the sounds of an impending disturbance became clear.

"Please mother, the healer's almost here," a man said, as pans clattered angrily in a hovel to the left of the stairs.

"No!" a woman protested, her elderly voice strident and outraged. "No I won't go. I _won't_."

Perrin leaned around the archway as, with a crash of a table overturning, a man emerged from the makeshift shelter carrying a furious, tiny woman.

"Just stay calm," he pleaded as she struggled to escape his grip. "You need help."

Anders dropped his bag, appearing at the woman's side in an instant as she flailed against her restraint. "What's happened?" he asked, looking from mother to son.

"She was stabbed," he said, tilting his head back to dodging a nasty blow to the jaw. "A week ago."

Carefully avoiding her flailing limbs, Anders helped the man get his mother to the ground, lying her down between them.

"I won't go," she shrieked, as hands suppressed her arms. Her beady eyes latched on to Anders' face. "Get your hands off me, filth."

He ignored her, looking to her son who carefully pulled back his mother's shirt, revealing first her shoulder and then the topmost of her withered breast. A shallow, raw wound tore jaggedly across it.

Behind him, he heard a distinctive, boyish gasp.

"How did this happen?" he asked, beginning to agitate his fingers to heal her.

The woman opened her mouth to speak, but her son shot her a chiding look. "She runs a tavern near the Slums Stair," he said, "buys her ale in from Athenril. When the lads heard the quarantine was nearly over, they spent their coppers, we ran out."

"Little beggars," she snapped, trying to jerk her shoulder free. Anders pinned it down with a carefully place knee.

"They didn't believe us when we told them," the son continued. "Attacked us."

"And she was stabbed," Anders said, nodding as he leaned closer to inspect.

"Don't touch me!" she spat, kicking out violently.

He looked into her face, tried to be soothing. "Messere, I need to heal the wound."

He saw the inflammation, the oozing, smelt the sickly sweetness of rotting flesh.

"Why didn't you come in sooner?" he asked, as he moved his hands into position.

"Mother refused," the son said, apologetically.

But as his fingers started to glow the woman screeched with bloody murder. "I said don't touch me, _mage_."

Anders froze.

"Mother!"

He sat back onto his heels, watching as the woman struggled upright, stunned.

She rounded on her son. "Don't scold me, boy," she hissed, her voice nothing but venom. "I told you not to bring me. I know what goes on in here." She looked past him, through him, and he became suddenly aware of Perrin, Teller and Cara standing behind him. "Sheltering a filthy mage, out of the Circle, abomination most like. Get your hands _off_ me."

On another day he might have acted with more dignity, more like healer he was expected to be. But at that moment, with the children mere feet behind him, and her hatred staring him in the face, something sparked within him, something he had thought dormant.

He stood up, backing away from her, something invisible crackling within him.

"The wound's infected," he said coldly, looking at the son with a shrug of his shoulder. "She'll die in a day or two. I suggest deathroot potion, if you find her shrieks of agony are giving you a headache." He made to turn away, glancing back at the man over his shoulder. "For her, not you, obviously."

The children were staring, still staring at the woman on the floor. He had place a hand on Teller's shoulder when he heard a small voice.

"Two _days_?" the woman whispered.

At her fear his anger splintered, vengeance cooling into bitterness. He turned back, sighing as he knelt beside her, fingers aglow.

"Good thing the Maker _loves_ a hypocrite," he said.

* * *

><p>She spread the new letter on the table, beside the sealed parchment and the other. Its ink was scrawled, even hasty, unlike Fionn.<p>

_Ariadne,_

_Please don't mistake me by any means. My gift is not for your benefit, but mine and __ours__. I have my fears, and for them alone I would ask that you take the gift. While the matter is free to some, it is weakened in all._

_I am sorry to burden you like this,_

The paper ended abruptly, unsigned.

"And what in the void is _that_ supposed to mean?" Varric said, sitting back as he finished reading.

"Do all mages talk in riddles," Isabela drawled, flicking at the letter with a fingertip, "or just the ones from Ferelden?"

Ariadne pinched the sealed parchment between her fingertips, pulling it back towards her. "He's talking about this," she said, waving it slightly. Overhead, rain pattered softly on the roofing shingles.

"It's a letter," Varric said, frowning.

Isabela rolled her eyes. "It isn't a _letter_. That thing reeks of magic."

Ten points to the pirate.

"It's a Jinx," Ariadne said, tucking it into her palm.

Varric and Isabela replied with blank stares.

"I'm sorry, pet," 'Bela said, "I don't speak Mage-inese."

Ariadne sighed. Did no-one _ever_ read?

"You've seen glyphs," she said slowly, trying to speak as plainly as possible, "the patterns mages make that bind or block? Jinxes are paper glyphs, in a sense. The words bind the user to whatever purpose the creator intends."

"It _controls_ them?" Isabela asked, looking at the paper with something like alarm.

"Not like that," Ariadne said, smiling. She placed the parchment carefully on the table, the seal upwards. "This contains the details of the mission we are planning for my friend. We read it, opening and closing with the pass words. Once we're done the secret is locked. The Jinx prevents us from discussing it with anyone who isn't part of the secret."

"How does that work?" Varric asked, frowning.

"You just can't talk about it," she said. "The words are on the tip of your tongue but you can't say them. It's a mental block, of sorts."

"You just can't talk about it," Varric echoed, watching the parchment as if it might move.

"Not if anyone who isn't part of it can hear you," Ariadne said, "no."

The dwarf leaned forwards, eyeing the violet wax of the seal. "And it's all on the paper?"

"No, the pass words are only on the spell itself. This is a copy, Fi..." Ariadne paused, reconfigured, "my friend has the real thing."

"But we need the 'pass words'?"

She nodded, eyeing Isabela as the pirate listened in silence. "Yes."

"But if they're not on the..."

"It's fine," she said, cutting Varric off. "I know them. I will tell you and then you can use them."

He chuckled. "If you're expecting me to speak Arcanum," he said, "I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed."

She grinned at him. "The pass words aren't spells," she said warmly. "You'll be able to say them."

The dwarf reached across the table, taking the sealed parchment between his short, but nimble fingers. "And it will work?" he asked, turning it over and examining the folds. "I mean, is your friend any good at these?"

"He should be," Ariadne said smartly, reaching back over her shoulder to claim a handful of nuts from the bowl on Varric's sideboard, "considering I taught him." She crushed the nutshells under her cup, and began picking through the fragments. "If you want in on the mission, even just a little bit, you have to read the Jinx."

The rustling of nuts and nutshells filled the quiet as Varric joined Ariadne, cracking his individually and revealing them spectacularly whole as opposed to her shattered nuggets. They were waiting for the same thing.

"What if you just tell us the bits we need to know?" Isabela said at last.

"It doesn't work like that," Ariadne said quietly, not looking up. Experience told her that you never pressed Isabela, that you let her come to you, let her pursue _you_.

"Why not?"

"Because," she said slowly, peeling the bitter skin off a walnut as best she could, "even the tiniest scrap is part of the secret. You'll only weaken the Jinx."

Another pause and then, "Have you read it?"

"Not yet."

She heard the frown in her friend's voice. "But you know," Isabela said. "Surely you should read it if you know?"

"I can't," she replied matter-of-factly, allowing herself to glance up, reading the confusion in 'Bela's expression, "at least not until you have. I know the pass words, but they're part of the Jinx."

"So once you've read it," Varric said, tilting his head towards her, "you won't be able to say them."

"Exactly."

They waited.

"So we need to decide if we want in?" 'Bela asked.

"Not right now," Ariadne said, reclaiming the parchment from Varric and tucking it in to the sleeve of her robe. "Fionn only told me the general plan. Until I know the full details, the secret is secure."

She felt the silence fall.

"That's not what you just said," Isabela said sharply.

"That's not what _he_ said, either," added Varric, drawing the letter across the table.

She shrugged, trying to dismiss it. "It's fine."

"_Bullshit_."

Varric always did know how to call her bluff.

Her lips were pursed as she looked up at them, knowing that she was cornered.

"You want to tell Anders," Isabela said coolly, watching her without judgement. "You want to wait for the Guard to set up this 'postal system' so you can send it to him. You're stalling because you need him to know."

Varric nodded. "This has something to do with the quarantine," he said.

Ariadne glared at them both. "Not another word," she hissed. "Not another _thought_. Either of you. Stop now."

But he persisted, "You can't wait. The post won't begin until Haring. If you wait that long you'll jeopardise the whole thing."

He was angry, angry because she was being reckless, because it wasn't like her.

"I won't," she protested, feeling how small her voice was. "It's only a few weeks until then. It will be fine."

"You're willing to risk it?" he said, and he was almost shouting at her. "You're willing to let your friend getting caught by Templars just so you can..."

"She _needs_ to tell him," 'Bela said, interrupting him.

Sodding pirate.

"What?" Varric asked, bemused.

"She needs to tell him because it will affect him," Isabela said briskly, rolling her eyes at the dwarf's stupidity.

Just because she could read Ariadne like a bloody book.

"'Bela, please," Ariadne said softly, "don't push this."

"What do you mean it will affect him?" Varric asked, looking to the Rivaini with a raised eyebrow.

"I can't read her mind, Varric," Isabela snapped back.

Oh but she could, she could.

"Somehow," the pirate sighed, looking at Ariadne with pity, "somehow Anders will be affected."

A pause, and then Varric nodded. "Fine," he said, "I'll read it."

Ariadne blinked at him. "What?"

"Hawke, you're risking your friend's whole mission," he said exasperatedly. "You must have good reasons, and I want to know what they are. I'll read it. I'll help you."

He trusted her, the thought was unexpected and more than a little fantastic. She turned to Isabela, feeling hopeful despite her better judgement.

"Bela?"

Ariadne saw the refusal in the pirate's face before it was spoken. "I... I can't."

Commitment, the only thing that ever scared her.

"That's fine," Ariadne said gently, reaching over and squeezing 'Bela's arm, "but you'll have to leave us to it."

The pirate nodded, getting to her feet. "I'm sorry, pet," she said.

She meant it.

Ariadne smiled. "It's fine."

Isabela left quietly, and Varric closed the door behind her.

"Alone at last," he teased.

She giggled appreciatively as she searched his desk. "Do you have any sealing wax?" she asked, glancing back at him. "I'll need you to reseal the paper after."

He pointed to a wooden box on the bookcase beside her. Pulling it down, she cradled it in the crook of her arm as she lifted the lid. Among the loose papers and quills and nibs she found what she was looking for, a shiny bar of bottle green wax. It was only as she withdrew it that she saw the bundle, tucked into the bottom of the box, a stack of papers tied neatly with string. It didn't take a genius to recognise the bundle for what it was, especially when you had something similar hiding under your bed.

She closed the box, smiling to herself, trying to imagine a younger Varric in love, writing letters and receiving them.

Though to be honest, she wasn't even certain what dwarven women looked like.

Ariadne replaced the box in its outline of dust on the shelf, and took the sealing wax over to the table. Handing Varric the parchment, she turned away from him, watching the lamplight shifting on the wall as a blade slid through the seal.

Varric hesitated. "It's blank," he said quietly.

She stopped herself looking back at him. "It's not broken," she said. "It's because you haven't said the pass words."

"Which are?"

She smiled, feeling a hint of long forgotten emotion. "The Green Mare."

An interested noise and then: "The Green Mare."

"Anything?" she asked, when she had waited long enough.

The dwarf chuckled, clearly impressed. "Just a little," he muttered.

"Don't tell me."

"I'm not going to."

She waited, fiddling with a loose thread that was straying from the sleeve of her robe. After a time that seemed far longer than it doubtless was, Varric gave a low whistle.

"He does need to know," she said quietly, "doesn't he?"

"Yes," Varric replied, and she heard the sound of the paper being folded over, "he definitely needs to know."

She nodded, feeling in no way relieved by being proven right. "Are you done?"

"I'm thinking," he replied, unusually terse.

"You shouldn't wait too long," she said, sneaking a half-glance back at him. "You're leaving it vulnerable."

Behind her, something clattered across the table as Varric growled in frustration. "I just can't think of another way for you to tell him."

He sounded as hopeless as she felt. "Neither can I," she said.

"I'm sorry, Hawke," he said through gritted teeth. "The Green Mare."

The light flickered in the room, a whisper of magic travelling up her spine like a breath of cold air. "Is it gone?" she asked quietly, knowing full well that it was. "Reseal it."

She turned back to the table, watching emotions flicker over Varric's face as he realised that he was powerless to speak. He resealed the paper slowly, haltingly, as thoughts occurred to him that he could not utter.

"It takes some getting used to," she said, as he pressed an old wooden stamp into the wax. "You should be able to lie. You'll be convincing too, which helps. You'll learn pretty quickly what you can mention and what you can't. How are you?"

"Oh I'm peachy," he said, scowling.

"The lying thing will take a little practice," Ariadne teased, pinching his arm.

* * *

><p>A drip had started falling from the Clinic's ceiling, a steady plink, <em>plink<em>, plink that told Anders it was raining up above. He stood, carefully, on a stool balanced on a crate, peering at the crack. It wasn't spreading, which was something, but it wasn't exactly fixable. Not that he'd have known _how_ to fix it even if it was.

Down below him, Cara and Perrin packed up the equipment and made note of the day's cases, while Teller perched on the examination table, swinging his legs.

"What's an abomination?"

Anders nearly fell off his stool. Fortunately no-one seemed to notice. The question wasn't directed at him so much as at the room in general.

"You didn't listen to that old bat, did you?" said Perrin irritably, looking up from her ledger.

Teller frowned, glancing up at Anders who busied himself inspecting the crack. "I just want to know," he said.

The seconds passed. Anders knew that he was shirking responsibility, a duty even, but his tongue seemed tied in his mouth.

"An abomination is...," Cara began, sitting down on a stool opposite Teller, "something that can happen to a mage."

Anders could feel the boy tensing. "Like the cholera?"

Slowly, he began making his way down from the ceiling.

"In a sense," Cara said softly, tucking her hair back behind a tapered ear. "Do you know what the Fade is, Teller?"

The boy nodded, focused on the nurse as Anders slipped around behind him, heading to Perrin at the desk. "It's where you go when you dream."

"Yes," the nurse continued, with just the slightest hint of the schoolteacher about her. "And you know that there are things in there?"

"Monsters?"

The tremor in Teller's voice did something funny to Anders' chest, even as he leaned over Perrin's ledger.

"Demons," Cara said slowly, fiddling nervously with her sleeve. "Sometimes, a demon will attack a mage in the Fade."

"They hurt mages?"

Anders knew that he was failing Teller, even as he stood there beside his sister. That he was failing them both by leaving this conversation in someone else's hands.

"They use them," Cara said. "They take over the mage's body, come out into the real world."

He should have told them this himself. He should be telling them now. He should give them the opportunity to understand him, to care for him in his entirety.

"But Dad's a mage."

Then again, they shouldn't be in his care at all. They had been getting on just fine without him for years. Everything he gave them was a bonus, something they could never have expected.

"And he's a strong one," she said, reaching out a hand to reassure him. "He could fight a demon off, no trouble."

But as he listened to the fear, the barely restrained terror in Teller's voice, knowing that it was fear for him, on his behalf because the boy had come to love him beyond reason, as the only parent, the only _father_, he had ever known, Anders knew that he wasn't strong enough to make it right.

"What does an abomination look like?" the boy asked, after a pause.

"Like a monster," Anders said, quietly.

* * *

><p><strong>Please R and R!<strong>


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